SILHOUETTES  OF  AMERICAN  LIFE 


SILHOUETTES    OF 
AMERICAN    LIFE 


BY 

REBECCA    HARDING   DAVIS 


NEW   YORK 

CHARLES   SCRIBNER'S   SONS 
1892 


COPYRIGHT,    1892, 
BY  CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS. 


TO 
R.  H.  D. 


M12037 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

AT  THE  STATION 1 

TlRAR   Y    SOULT .  21 

WALHALLA 46 

THE  DOCTOR'S  WIFE 07 

ANNE 74 

AN  IGNOBLE  MARTYR 92 

ACROSS  THE  GULF Ill 

A  WAYSIDE  EPISODE 145 

MADEMOISELLE  JOAN 172 

THE  END  OF  THE  VENDETTA 193 

A  FADED  LEAP  OF  HISTORY 218 

THE  TARES  OF  THE  BLACK  MOUNTAINS 239 

MARCIA 269 

vii 


AT   THE   STATION 


""VTOTHIXGr  could  well  be  more  commonplace  or 
-L-^t  ignoble  than  the  corner  of  the  world  in  which 
Miss  Dilly  now  spent  her  life. 

A  wayside  inn,  near  a  station  on  the  railway  which 
runs  from  Salisbury,  in  North  Carolina,  up  into  the 
great  Appalachian  range  of  mountains ;  two  or  three 
unpainted  boxes  of  houses  scattered  along  the  track 
by  the  inn;  not  a  tree  nor  blade  of  grass  in  the 
"  clarin' " ;  a  few  gaunt,  long-legged  pigs  and  chickens 
grunting  and  cackling  in  the  muddy  clay  yards ;  be 
yond,  swampy  tobacco  fields  stretching  to  the  encir 
cling  pine  woods.  For  Sevier  Station  lay  on  the 
lowland;  the  mountains  rose  far  to  the  west,  like  a 
blue  haze  on  the  horizon.  The  railway  ran  like  a 
black  line  across  the  plain,  and  stopped  at  their  foot 
at  a  hamlet  called  Henry's;  thence  an  occasional 
enterprising  traveller  took  "  the  team  "  up  the  precip 
itous  mountain  road  to  Asheville,  then  a  sleepy  vil 
lage  unknown  to  tourists. 

Nothing,  too,  could  have  been  more  commonplace 
or  ignoble  than  Miss  Dilly  herself:  a  pudgy  old 
woman  of  sixty,  her  shapeless  body  covered  with  a 

I 


2  SILHOUETTES   OF  AMERICAN  LIFE 

scant,  blue  homespun  gown,  with  a  big  white  apron 
tied  about  where  the  waist  should  have  been ;  a  face 
like  that  of  an  exaggerated  baby,  and  round,  innocent 
blue  eyes,  which,  when  they  met  yours,  you  were  sure 
were  the  friendliest  in  the  world.  Miss  Dilly  always 
wore  a  coarse  white  handkerchief  (snowy  white,  and 
freshly  ironed)  pinned  about  her  neck,  and  another 
tied  over  her  ears,  for  she  had  occasionally  a  mysteri 
ous  paiu,  commonly  known  to  us  as  neuralgia,  but 
which  the  Carolinian  mountaineers  declare  is  only 
caused  by  being  "  overlooked  "  by  some  one  who  has  an 
evil  eye. 

"They  tell  me  it  must  be  so,"  Miss  Dilly  would 
say.  "  But,  of  course,  my  dear,  it  was  done  by  acci 
dent.  Nobody  would  hurt  a  person  thataway,  meanin' 
it.  An'  it's  a  mighty  tarrible  thing  to  have  that  kind 
of  an  eye !  I  hope  the  good  Lord  don't  let  any  poor 
soul  know  that  he  has  it." 

Miss  Dilly  had  had  this  pain  only  since  she  had 
lived  in  the  lowland.  It  had  almost  disabled  her. 
She  was  born  in  the  mountains  —  up  on  the  Old  Black 
—  and  she  fancied  that  if  she  could  go  back  to  them 
she  would  be  cured.  But  her  younger  brother,  James, 
owned  this  farm  and  inn,  and  when  their  mother  died, 
twenty  years  ago,  he  had  agreed  with  Preston  Ban- 
that  he  should  have  both,  rent  free,  if  he  would  give 
Dilly  a  home  and  the  yield  of  one  field  of  tobacco 
yearly.  James  then  set  off  to  the  West  to  make  his 
fortune.  Letters  at  first  came  regularly.  But  it  was 
ten  years  now  since  she  had  heard  from  him. 

Nobody  ever  heard  a  groan  from  Miss  Dilly  when 
the  attacks  of  pain  came  on. 


AT  THE  STATION  3 

"  When  the  good  Lord  gives  you  a  load  to  eahry,  I 
reckon  't  ar'iit  the  clean  thing  to  lay  it  on  other  folks' 
shoulders,"  she  would  say,  laughing.  She  shut  her 
self  up,  therefore,  in  her  own  chamber,  and  would  let 
nobody  in,  though  everybody  at  the  inn,  from  Squire 
Barr  himself  to  Sam  (the  black  cook,  ostler,  and 
chambermaid),  besieged  the  door. 

A  gloom  like  that  of  a  funeral  overhung  the  whole 
clarin'  when  Miss  Dilly  had  one  of  her  spells.  After 
the  passing  of  the  two  trains  a  day  it  was  the  one 
topic  of  interest. 

"I've  knowed  wimmen  as  was  younger,"  old  Colonel 
Koyall  would  say,  solemnly  wagging  his  head  and 
winking  his  bleared  eyes ;  "  but  Aunt  Dilly  is  the 
jokingest  and  most  agreeable  of  her  sex  in  this  part 
of  Cahliny,  to  my  thinkiii'." 

"  Yes,"  Squire  Barr  would  answer,  nodding  gravely. 
"  And  how  any  human  fiend  could  lay  the  devil's  look 
on  her,  passes  me  !  " 

When  the  attack  was  over  she  would  come  down, 
pale  and  pinched  about  the  jaws,  but  smiling,  kissing 
and  shaking  hands  all  round  as  if  she  had  come  back 
from  a  long  journey. 

The  Squire  invariably  addressed  her  with  ponder 
ous  gravity,  after  this  fashion  : 

"  Ef  it  be  so,  Aunt  Dilly,  's  you  think  goin'  back  to 
yer  home  on  th'  Old  Black  'd  give  you  ease,  say  the 
wohd.  I  cahn't  pay  you  rent  in  money,  foh  God- 
amity  knows,  I've  got  none.  But  in  traffic,  tobacco, 
cohn,  an'  millet — it'll  be  all  sent  up  reg'lar.  Though 
what  we'd  do  without  you  all,  passes  me  !  " 

At  which  Mrs.  Missouri  Barr  would  look  at  Miss 


4  SILHOUETTES   OF  AMERICAN  LIFE 

Dilly  with  tears  on  her  gaunt  cheeks,  and  the  girls 
would  hang  about  her,  patting  her,  and  the  Colonel 
would  declare  with  an  oath  that  "the  whole  clarin' 
had  been  powerful  interrupted  while  you  all  was 
gone.'7 

These  were  the  happiest  moments  of  Miss  Dilly's 
happy  life.  She  would  explain  carefully  to  them,  for 
the  thousandth  time,  her  feeling  on  the  matter.  "  'T 
seems  to  me  ef  I  was  in  the  old  place,  faciii'  Old 
Craggy,  '11  the  Swanannoa  a-runnin'  past  the  door,  '11 
could  go  set  by  father  'n  mother  every  mornin',  whar 
they're  lyin'  among  the  rowan  trees,  I'd  get  young 
agin  'n  lose  this  torment.  But  then,  what  'd  James 
think  ef  he'd  come  back  hyar  ready  to  cahry  me  to 
his  home  in  Colorado  or  them  furrin  countries  ?  Me 
gone,  after  my  promise  to  wait  ?  'N  it  would  go  hard, 
too,  to  leave  you,  Preston,  'n  Missoury,  '11  the  girls, 
'11  Sam,  '11  all  —  very  hard  !  " 

The  girls  always  surprised  Miss  Dilly  with  a  good 
supper  on  these  recoveries,  and  the  Colonel  and  Squire 
Preston  felt  it  their  duty  to  go  to  bed  drunker  than 
usual,  in  sign  of  joy. 

At  other  times,  life  at  Sevier  -Station  was  stagnant 
enough.  Miss  Dilly  sewed  or  knit  in  her  own  roorn^ 
sitting  at  the  window  where  she  could  see  the  six 
men  of  the  village  sitting  in  a  roAV  in  the  gallery  of 
the  inn,  smoking.  She  called  them  her  boys,  and 
when  one  chanced  to  have  the  rheumatism  or  tooth 
ache  or  a  snake-bite,  clucked  about  him  like  an  old 
hen  over  an  ailing  chick.  All  the  children  in  the 
hamlet  were  free  of  her  room :  there  was  always  one 
at  least  with  her,  listening  to  her  old  Bible  stories. 


AT  THE  STATION  5 

Neither  they  nor  Miss  Dilly  were  at  all  sure  how  far 
exactly  Palestine  was  from  Carolina ;  indeed,  Dilly  had 
a  dim  conviction  that  the  mountains  on  which  her  Lord 
walked  and  suffered  and  died  were  part  of  the  moun 
tains  yonder,  which  were  all  the  world  that  she  knew. 

There  was  no  church  near  the  station;  there  were 
not  even  the  monthly  "  pra'ars  "  which  keep  up  the 
religious  and  social  life  of  the  mountains.  Miss 
Dilly  with  her  Bible  and  her  incessant  innocent  talk 
of  "the  good  Lord"  was  all  the  pope  or  preacher 
known  to  these  people,  the  oidy  messenger  sent  to 
show  them  how  to  live  or  to  die. 

In  the  morning  the  train  passed  the  station,  going 
up  to  Henry's ;  in  the  afternoon  it  came  down ;  it 
halted  for  five  or  ten  minutes  each  time.  These  brief 
pauses  were  the  end  of  life  for  the  population  of 
Sevier  Station  ;  the  whole  twenty-four  hours  merely 
led  up  to  them.  When  the  train  came  in  sight,  the  six 
men,  the  women,  children,  pigs,  and  chickens  dropped 
the  work  they  had  in  hand  and  waited,  breathless. 
It  came  up  out  of  the  great  busy  world  and  swept 
down  into  it  again  —  a  perpetual  miracle  —  leaving 
them  in  silence  and  solitude.  Miss  Dilly  was  always 
at  her  post  by  the  window  to  see  it  go  by.  The  con 
ductor  and  engineer  had  learned  to  watch  for  the 
wondering  old  baby  face,  and  often  threw  to  her  a 
little  package  of  candy  or  a  newspaper.  Her  heart 
thumped  with  terror  and  delight  as  the  wonderful 
thing  rushed  past  her.  If  she  could  only  ride  on 
the  cars  once,  only  for  a  mile!  This  was  the  one 
secret  ambition  of  her  life. 

Sometimes,  but  very  rarely,  the  train  was  belated 


G  SILHOUETTES   OF  AMERICAN  LIFE 

and  stopped  long  enough,  for  the  passengers  to  take 
supper.  Then  excitement  rose  to  fever  height.  Mrs. 
Barr,  the  girls,  Preston,  even  the  Colonel  were  busy 
in  the  kitchen,  cooking,  and  scolding  Sam.  Miss 
Dilly,  who  could  do  nothing,  hurried  to  the  parlor,  in 
fresh  apron  and  handkerchiefs.  It  was  a  stuffy  little 
room  with  plaited  rugs  on  the  floor,  a  chromo  of  the 
death-Led  of  Washington  in  a  mica  frame  on  the  wall, 
and  a  red-hot  stove  in  the  middle.  The  passengers  who 
were  waiting  for  supper,  to  Miss  Dilly 's  mind,  were 
all  dear  good  folk  who  had  come  up  from  the  world 
to  talk  to  her  awhile.  She  took  the  keenest  interest 
in  them  all ;  nursed  the  babies,  pulled  out  some  candy 
from  her  pocket  for  the  children,  ran  for  a  drink  for 
the  tired,  dusty  women,  or  sat  listening  eagerly  to  the 
talk  of  the  men,  now  and  then  asking  a  timid  ques 
tion.  "  And  you  really  been  at  New  Yohk,  sah  ? 
Dear  me  !  I  doan  know  what  anybody  thet  has  bin 
at  New  Yohk  wants  to  come  to  the  mountings  foh. 
No,  I  nevah  travelled.  Much,  that  is.  I  was  once  at 
Asheville,  foh  two  days.  I  reckon  New  Yohk  is  dif- 
ferint.  But  Asheville  is  a  vehy  large  town,  sah.  You 
suhtinly  ought  to  visit  it." 

It  was  singular  to  see  how  they  all,  women,  chil 
dren,  and  men,  seemed  to  understand  Miss  Dilly  at 
once,  and  treated  her  with  a  tender  kind  of  respect. 
She  usually  felt  quite  intimate  with  them  all  before 
the  evening  was  over,  and  when  they  entered  the  train 
and  were  swept  out  of  sight,  would  stand  looking  after 
them,  the  tears  in  her  eyes. 

"  The  dear  friends  hardly  come  till  they  go  again," 
she  would  say  to  the  girls. 


AT  THE  STATION  7 

One  stormy  night  in  winter  the  train  was  delayed 
two  hours  beyond  its  time.  A  child  of  one  of  the  pas 
sengers  had  been  taken  sick,  near  Henry's ;  the  train 
was  stopped,  and  a  man  who  was  said  to  have  con 
siderable  skill  in  physic  was  sent  for,  two  miles  dis 
tant.  The  passengers  waited  willingly.  They  were 
in  no  hurry ;  nobody  in  Carolina  was  ever  in  a  hurry 
in  those  days.  Everybody  was  anxious  to  help  the 
baby,  and  proposed  his  own  favorite  remedy,  brandy 
being  the  most  popular. 

There  were  only  two  men  in  the  car  who  did  not 
join  the  group  about  the  sick  child.  They  sat  on  a 
back  seat;  one  of  them,  a  swarthy,  middle-aged  man, 
with  eyes  like  those  of  a  stupid,  affectionate  dog, 
stooping  forward,  listening  eagerly  to  its  moans  and 
the  advice  of  the  crowd. 

"Poor  little  kid!"  he  said,  earnestly.  "I  reckon 
it's  its  head  as  is  wrong.  I  had  a  boy  once.  He  only 
lived  to  be  seven.  It  was  the  head  as  ailed  him.  The 
brain,  sah.  Enormous  !  Ef  that  little  fellah  had  lived 
he'd  have  made  his  mark  in  the  world,  alongside  of 
Alick  Stephens." 

"  Died  at  seven  ?  "  said  his  companion  with  an  inar 
ticulate  murmur  of  sympathy.  "Well,  sah.  Him 
thet's  above,  He  knows.  It's  all  fob.  the  best." 

"  Not  f oh  me ;  not  f oh  me  !  "  with  a  fierce  growl, 
after  which  he  was  silent.  Presently  he  said :  "  Cap 
tain,  I  used  to  quiet  my  boy  a-strokin'  of  his  temples. 
Ef  they'd  try  it  on  the  baby  —  " 

"  I'm  very  sorry,  Mr.  Judson,"  said  the  other  man, 
with  sudden  gravity,  "thet  I  cahn't  let  you  try  it 
yohself .  But  duty,  sah  — ': 


8  SILHOUETTES   OF  AMERICAN  LIFE 

"  I  didn't  think  of  doin'  it  myself !  "  exclaimed  Jud 
son,  angrily.  "  You  don't  suspect  me  of  a  trick  ? 
D'ye  think  I'm  a  sneak?" 

"  God  forbid  !  No,  no,  Mr.  Judson.  I  know  a  high- 
toned  gentleman  when  I  see  him.  When  Sheriff  Koyls- 
ton  give  me  this  commission  he  says :  '  Treat  Mr. 
Judson  as  a  high-toned  gentleman.'  And  as  such  I 
recognized  you.  And  as  such  I  treated  you." 

Judson  made  no  answer.  He  had  dropped  back  into 
his  seat  and  pulled  the  wide-rimmed  hat  over  his 
brows. 

The  child  by  this  time  was  asleep ;  the  passengers 
crept  softly  back  to  their  places,  and  the  train  was 
again  in  motion.  As,  an  hour  later,  it  rushed  along 
through  the  gathering  twilight,  Judson  glanced  out  of 
the  windows  from  side  to  side  with  a  terrible  appre 
hension  on  his  face. 

"  Isn't  this  the  old  Sevier  plantation  ?  " 

"Yes,  sah.  Consid'able  altered  since  the  railway 
was  laid." 

After  a  few  minutes  Judson  again  broke  the  silence. 
"Than  was  a  house  jest  beyond  the  Branch  hyah.  JT 
used  to  belong  to  a  family  named  —  Holmes." 

"Yes.  Station's  nigh  than  now.  Holmes  house's 
took  as  inn.  Squire  Barr's  the  proprietor,  sah." 

"  Any  of  the  Holmeses  livin'  tliah  ?  "  asked  Judson 
in  a  tone  which  made  Captain  Foulke  turn  and  look 
at  him  curiously. 

"  Miss  Dilly.  She  resides  with  the  Squire.  Colonel 
James  Holmes,  he's  gone  out  West  thataway.  I  hear 
as  he's  made  a  fortin  out  thah.  So  I've  heered.  I 
never  knowed  Colonel  James  myself.  I  belong  down 


AT  THE  STATION  9 

in  the  piny  woods  kentry.  I've  heered,  though,  as  he 
was  a  powerful  agreeable  gentleman.  Very  free  an' 
friendly.  The  folks  hyahbouts  think  a  heap  of  the 
Colonel  yet,  though  he's  bin  gone  a  good  many  year." 

"  Do  they  ? "  said  Judson,  with  a  queer  intonation. 

"Friend  of  yours,  may  be?"  asked  the  Captain, 
curiously.  Judson's  back  was  turned  toward  him  ;  he 
was  staring  out  into  the  darkening  fields.  He  did  not 
answer  for  a  moment. 

"No.  He  was  no  friend  of  mine,"  he  said  at  last 
in  a  tone  which  made  Captain  Foulke  keep  silent,  lie 
was  the  last  man  in  the  world  to  annoy  or  suggest  un 
pleasant  subjects  to  Mr.  Judson,  or  any  other  gentle 
man  who  was  in  difficulty. 

The  engine  gave  a  shriek.  The  conductor,  who  had 
been  dozing  near  the  stove,  got  up,  yawning. 

"  Sevier  Station,  gentlemen,''  he  suggested  mildly. 
"  Train  stops  liyali  for  supper." 

The  train  ran  bumping  along  the  track  and  stopped. 
The  passengers  rose  and  made  their  way  out  leisurely. 
In  the  noise,  they  did  not  hear  an  altercation  that  was 
going  on  at  the  back  of  the  car.  Judson  had  stiffened 
himself  back  in  his  seat. 

"My  God!  I  cahn't  get  out  hyah  !  Tliali  —  than 
are  folks  in  tliet  house  thet  know  me."  He  panted 
for  breath  with  sheer  terror ;  his  eye  gleamed  danger 
ously.  Foulke  and  the  conductor  stood  over  him  anx 
iously.  For  the  first  time  the  conductor  saw  that  he 
was  handcuffed. 

"Yes,"  explained  Foulke  rapidly,  in  a  whisper. 
"  Bringiii'  him  to  Raleigh  from  Tennessee,  on  riquisi- 
tion  from  Governor,  to  stand  his  trial  for  manslaughter. 


10  SILHOUETTES   OF  AMERICAN  LIFE 

Mr.  Judson!"  raising  his  voice,  "let  me  make  you 
acquainted  with  Captain  Arny.  Mr.  Judson,"  he  pro 
ceeded  in  a  hurried,  deprecating  tone,  "  lies  come  with 
me  clar  from  Nantahela  range,  whah  I  —  wliali  I- 
met  him,  and  has  give  me  no  trouble  whatsoever.  lie 
has  conducted  himself  like  the  high-toned  gentleman 
which  Sheriff  Koylston  —  " 

"  —  I  will  make  no  trouble  now,"  panted  Judson. 
"  Only  let  me  stay  in  the  car.  Foh  God's  sake, 
Captain ! " 

The  deputy  sheriff  and  conductor  exchanged  per 
plexed  glances. 

"Come,  come,  Mr.  Judson,"  said  Arny,  authorita 
tively  ;  "  Captain  Foulke  must  have  his  supper  ;n 
somethin'  warmin'.  So  must  you.  See  liyah  now  !  " 
wrapping  the  gray  sliawl  which  was  common  in  use 
among  men  at  that  time  about  the  prisoner  so  as  to 
conceal  his  arms,  and  pulling  his  hat  well  over  his 
brows.  "Yoh  own  wife  wouldn't  know  yoh,  sah. 
Come  now.  You  can  sit  in  the  parlor  if  yoh  doan 
keer  to  take  supper.  On  yoh  parole,  sah." 

Judson  hesitated,  looking  through  the  lighted  win 
dows  of  the  inn  with  a  terrified  yet  longing  eye. 
Figures  moved  dimly  within. 

"  I'll  go,"  he  said,  starting  forward.  "  I'll  sit  tliali. 
I'll  not  try  to  escape,  so  help  me  God." 

^***^*** 

What  with  the  sick  baby  and  the  tired  mother, 
Miss  Dilly  had  much  to  do  that  evening.  She  soon, 
however,  had  both  of  them  comfortably  disposed  in 
her  own  room  for  the  night,  and  then  hurried  down 
to  see  if  any  one  else  needed  her. 


AT  THE  STATION  11 

"  Why,  Squire,"  she  said,  bustling  into  the  kitchen, 
"thah's  a  gentleman  alone  in  the  parloh,  eatiu' 
nothin'." 

"He's  ailin',  Miss  Dilly.  Never  mind  him.  He 
(loan,  want  nothin'." 

But  Miss  Dilly  was  not  used  to  leave  ailing  people 
alone.  She  made  ready  a  steaming  cup  of  tea. 

"I'm  so  sorry  yoh  feelin'  porely,  sail,"  she  said. 
"  Won't  yoh  take  this,  jest  to  warm  yoh  ?  " 

"No,"  said  the  man,  gruffly.  Miss  Dilly,  unused  to 
rebuff,  stood  hesitating.  The  lamplight  shone  full  on 
her  gray  hair  and  kind  blue  eyes. 

"Don't  go,"  said  Judson.  "'Stay  with  me.  It  will 
only  be  for  a  few  minutes.  I'll  never  see  you  again." 

Something  in  the  voice  startled  the  old  woman. 
She  looked  at  him,  raised  her  head,  listening,  and 
then,  recollecting  herself,  sat  down,  laughing. 

"  Thet's  jest  what  I  allus  say  to  myself,"  she  said. 
"  The  folks  come  up  hyah,  'n  stay  jest  long  enough 
foil  me  to  find  they're  dear  friends,  'n  go,  '11  I  never 
see  them  again." 

"  And  yoh're  satisfied  with  sech  friends  as  the  cars 
bring  yoh  every  day  ?  "  he  sneered,  savagely. 

Miss  Dilly  drew  herself  up  with  a  certain  dignity. 
"  They're  all  my  friends,  as  I  said.  But  I  have  my 
own  people,  sah,  blood  of  my  blood  and  bone  of  my 
bone.  The  dear  Lord  sent  them  an'  me  into  the  world 
together." 

"  Who  are  they  ?  "  he  said  in  a  lower  tone. 

"  Our  family  ?  Thar's  my  brother,  sah,  Colonel 
James  Holmes.  I'm  waiting  hyah  for  him  now.  I'm 
expectin'  him  every  day.  An'  my  father  '11  mother  : 


12  SILHOUETTES   OF  AMERICAN  LIFE 

they're  up  on  the  Old  Black.  An'  thah's  a  child  in 
our  family,"  she  added,  with  a  proud  rising  of  the 
voice.  "  He's  my  brother's  son.  He  is  such  a  boy's 
yoh  never  hear  of  now,  sah.  He  was  jest  seven  when 
he  —  went  away." 

She  turned  her  head,  the  tears  creeping  down  her 
withered  cheeks. 

The  prisoner  half  rose,  with  a  muttered  exclama 
tion. 

"  What's  that  ?  Who  —  "  cried  Miss  Dilly.  "  I  beg 
yoh  pardon,  sah,  I  thought  I  heard  a  name  — 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  Nothing  —  nothing.  I  thought  yoh  said  a  name 
that  I  used  to  be  called  at  home  —  mother  an'  Jem 
an'  all  of  them.  I  haven't  heard  it  foh  years.  I 
reckin  it  was  talkin'  of  them  made  me  fancy  it.  I'm 
afeerd  my  mind's  gettin'  foolish  study  in'  about  Jem, 
an  expecti n'  him." 

"  An'  yoh  think  he'll  come  ?  " 

"I  know  it,"  said  Miss  Dilly,  quietly.  "Squire 
P>arr,  sometimes  he  says  :  '  Maybe  the  Colonel's  mer- 
ried  a  rich  wife,  in  some  of  them  big  Western  towns, 
and  hes  done  forgot  us  all.'  An'  the  girls,  I  know 
they're  afeerd  he's  dead.  But  he'll  come.  Every  day 
since  he  went  away  I've  asked  the  Lord  to  send  him 
back  :  so  he  —  lies  to  come" 

Judson  did  not  speak  for  some  time.  His  jaws 
sank  deeper  in  the  mufflers  about  his  neck.  He  said 
at  last: 

"An'  when  he  comes,  I  reckon  yoh'd  be  pleased  to 
hear  of  the  rich  wife  and  grand  house  ?  " 

Miss  Dilly  winced.     "  Ef  Jem's  home  is  like  thet, 


AT  THE  STATION  !.'> 

it's  all  right.  I'd  go  if  he  wants  me.  But  what  I've 
thought  I'd  like  —  "  She  hesitated. 

"  What  ?  " 

"Ef  we  could  go  back,  jest  our  two  selves  to  our 
house  ou  the  Old  Black,  an'  him  an'  me  live  thah 
together  a  few  year  before  we  went  away  —  " 

The  man's  head  dropped  on  his  chest.  He  was  so 
still  that  she  jumped  to  her  feet,  frightened. 

"Yoh're  very  porely!  I'll  bring  something  —  I've 
gum  camphor  in  a  jar  of  whiskey  — "  She  laid  her 
hand  on  his  arm. 

At  that  moment  the  passengers  came  in  from  sup 
per,  Arny  and  Captain  Foulke,  who  had  kept  their 
eyes  on  the  prisoner  through  the  open  door,  fore 
most.  They  thrust  themselves  between  him  and  Miss 
Dilly. 

"  Come,  Mr.  Judson,  take  somethin'  warmin'." 

They  talked  loudly,  bustling  about  him,  that  she 
might  not  see  the  handcuffs.  The  passengers  crowded 
out  of  the  door,  going  to  the  train. 

Judson  with  a  fierce  gesture  motioned  the  men 
aside.  "I  must  speak  a  word  to  her."  He  crossed 
the  room  to  where  Miss  Dilly  stood. 

"Doan  yoh  git  tired  prayin'  foh  him!  For  God's 
sake  doan  git  tired !  An'  maybe  he  kin  come  back  !  " 

.  .  .  The  train  was  gone,  and  Miss  Dilly  went  about 
her  work,  stupefied.  Why  had  she  talked  of  Jem  and 
his  boy  to  this  man?  She  never  spoke  of  them  to 
strangers.  It  seemed  as  if  the  good  Lord  had  made 
her  do  it  to-night. 

She  prayed  for  her  brother  that  night  as  she  never 
had  prayed  before.  She  did  not  know  why  she  did  it. 


14  SILHOUETTES   OF  AMERICAN  LIFE 

Nothing  in  this  gruff  stranger  had  reminded  her  of 
saucy,  affectionate  Jem. 

But  when  everybody  in  the  inn  was  in  bed  and 
asleep,  she  crept  on  to  the  porch  and  stood  looking 
out  into  the  gray,  fathomless  night.  Somewhere  out 
in  that  great  unknown  world  —  he  was.  He  might  be 
in  that  grand  house  —  he  might  be  sick  and  starving 
among  beggars ;  but  wherever  he  was,  he  must  come 
back  to  her.  Her  childish,  faithful  soul  went  out  in 
an  agony  of  supplication. 

"Lord,  bring  him  back  to  me.  To  me — me!" 
The  fog  was  thick  and  cold,  and  Miss  Dilly  was  used 
to  the  warmest  corner  of  the  house.  But  it  seemed 
to  her  that  she  must  go  out  into  the  open  wide  night  to 
come  nearer  to  him.  He  was  there  alive,  needing  her. 
"  Lord,  bring  him  back  to  me,"  she  cried. 

#:**#**:*# 

The  people  at  the  station  noticed  a  change  in  Miss 
Dilly  after  that  night.  She  had  always  been  kind, 
but  now  she  was  tender  to  every  living  thing  she  could 
reach,  with  the  tenderness  which  a  mother  shows  to  a 
sick  child.  She  had  always  been  cheerful,  but  now 
she  was  breathlessly  anxious  to  make  every  one  about 
her  happy  and  merry. 

"  I  reckon,"  said  Colonel  Royall,  shaking  his  head, 
"  she's  a  ripenin'  fur  the  end.  The  doors  is  openin' 
an'  the  glory's  a  shinin'  down  on  her." 

An  uneasy  dread  seized  the  station  when  this  opin 
ion  was  made  known.  Everybody  whispered  and  kept 
an  anxious  watch  on  Miss  Dilly's  coughs  and  appetite. 
Mrs.  Barr,  who  was  a  dribbling  woman  as  to  mind,  at 
last  told  her  what  they  feared. 


AT   THE  STATION  15 

Miss  Dilly  laughed  a  sound,  healthy  laugh. 

"  It's  not  death  at  all  that's  comin',  Missoury,"  she 
said.  "  It's  Jem  !  The  Lord  isn't  deaf.  Nor  hard 
of  heart.  Neither  lies  he  gone  on  a  journey,  as  the 
prophet  says.  He'll  send  my  brother  back  to  me.  I'm 
thinkin'  of  it  continooally  now.  If  one  of  you's  sick, 
I  think  —  what  if  that  was  Jem  ?  An'  I  try  to  help 
you.  And  if  another  one's  downhearted,  I  think,  what 
if  that  was  Jem  ?  An'  I  try  to  cheer  him  up.  That's 
the  truth,  Missoury.  It  isn't  death,  it's  Jem." 

"  If  the  Lord  shud  go  back  on  her  after  all  ?  "  the 
Squire  muttered  with  bated  breath  when  he  heard  this 
report  from  his  wife. 

Summer  came,  and  winter,  and  summer  again,  until 
two  years  had  gone  by. 

Judson  had  stood  his  trial  and  been  convicted  and 
served  out  his  brief  term  of  imprisonment.  On  the 
day  that  he  received  his  discharge,  the  warden  of  the 
prison,  as  usual,  spoke  a  few  kind  words  of  warning 
and  counsel  to  the  prisoner  at  parting.  He  was 
startled  when  Judson,  who  was  noted  as  a  reticent, 
gruff  man,  answered  him  formally : 

"  Sah,  yoh're  quite  right.  I'd  been  runnin'  down, 
steady,  for  ten  year.  Down.  Sudden,  one  day,  like 
a  flash  of  lightnin'  across  my  path,  I  was  made  to 
know  of  a  woman  —  who  shell  be  nameless  hyah  —  who 
lied  loved  me  an'  believed  in  me  all  my  life.  Thet 
has  made  a  different  man  of  me.  Sah,  she's  kep'  a 
holt  on  me  !  She's  tied  me  to  God  with  her  pra'ars  ! 
I  cahn't  get  loose ! "  he  cried  with  a  nervous  gulp  in 
his  throat. 

"  Sah,  I  thank  yoh  foh  yoh  words.     I'm  goin'  to  her 


16  SILHOUETTES   OF  AMERICAN  LIFE 

to  try  to  be  the  man  yoh  say.  I'm  goin'  to  trust  to 
her  an'  God  to  pull  me  through  ! " 

Before  he  left,  the  warden  gave  him  more  advice. 
"  Take  your  own  name,  Judson,"  he  said.  "  I  suspect 
you  are  now  under  an  alias.  Say  nothing  to  this 
woman  of  your  past  life.  Begin  afresh  where  it  is 
not  known,  and  —  may  God  bless  you,  sah." 

This  was  in  October. 

Christmas,  that  year,  brought,  as  usual,  a  stir  of 
delightful  excitement  to  the  inn.  Sevier  Station  knew 
nothing  of  the  high  significance  which  modern  thought 
attaches  to  the  great  festival  of  the  Christian  Year. 
It  was  the  day,  however,  on  which  Colonel  Koyall 
sent,  before  breakfast,  a  bumper  of  foaming  egg-nog 
to  every  white  man  and  woman  in  the  clarin'.  Every 
negro  who  asked  for  it  had  "  a  warmin'  "  of  whiskey  at 
the  Colonel's  expense.  It  was  the  day,  too,  on  which 
Squire  Barr  gave  his  annual  tremendous  dinner  of 
turkey  and  chicken  pie,  at  which  the  six  families  of 
the  village  all  sate  down  together.  Mrs.  Missoury 
Barr,  also,  made  a  practice  of  sending  dishes  of  roast 
pork  and  hominy,  or  'possum  stewed  in  rice  and  mo 
lasses,  or  some  such  delicacy,  to  every  negro  cabin. 
There  was  a  general  interchange  of  gifts  :  brier-wood 
pipes,  or  pinchbeck  scarf-pins,  or  cakes  of  soap  in  the 
shape  of  dog's  heads,  all  of  which  elegant  trifles  had 
been  purchased  from  travelling  peddlers,  months  be 
fore,  and  stored  away  for  the  great  occasion.  Miss 
Dilly,  you  may  be  sure,  was  quite  ready  for  Christmas. 
Her  locked  drawer  was  full  of  socks  and  mufflers 
knitted  by  herself,  all  of  bright  red,  as  "bein'  more 
cheerin'."  Nobody  was  forgotten  in  that  drawer, 


AT  THE  STATION  17 

from  the  Squire  to  the  least  pickaninny  in  the  quar 
ters. 

There  was  a  vague  idea  throughout  the  clarin'  that 
the  day  was  one  in  which  to  be  friendly  and  to  give 
old  grudges  the  go-by:  the  Lord  (with  whom  Aunt 
Dilly  was  better  acquainted  than  the  rest)  was  sup 
posed,  for  some  reason,  to  be  nearer  at  hand  on  that  day 
than  usual,  though  not  so  near  as  to  make  anybody 
uncomfortable. 

Father  Ruggles,  the  jolly  old  Methodist  itinerant, 
was  up  in  the  mountains,  and  had  sent  word  he  was 
coming  down  for  his  Christmas  dinner. 

"  He'll  ask  a  blessin'  on  the  meal,  thank  Heaven !  " 
said  Mrs.  Missoury,  with  a  devout  sigh. 

The  Squire  hurried  with  the  news  to  find  the 
Colonel. 

"It'll  be  a  big  occasion,"  he  said,  triumphantly. 
"  Father  Buggies  '11  be  equal  to  a  turkey  himself.  I 
depend  on  you  foh  makin'  de  coffee,  Colonel.  Sam's 
that  eggsited  now  he  doan  know  what  he's  about." 

"  Suhtenly,  suhtenly  !  But  really,  Mrs.  Missoury  'd 
better  double  de  supply  of  mince-pie,"  he  suggested, 
anxiously.  "  Father  Kuggles  is  taerible  fond  of  mince." 

Preparations  went  on  with  increasing  force  and  vigor. 
They  reached  full  completion  the  day  before  Christ 
mas.  Then  the  station  paused  to  take  breath  before 
the  great  event. 

Father  Ruggles  arrived  at  noon,  and  in  five  minutes 
had  shaken  hands  with  everybody,  black  and  white, 
and  put  them  all  in  good  humor  with  him,  them 
selves,  and  each  other. 

"  A  doan  like  Miss  Dilly's  looks,"  he  said,  lowering 


18  SILHOUETTES   OF  AMERICAN  LIFE 

his  voice,  when  he  and  the  Colonel  and  Squire  were 
seated  together  in  high  conclave  on  the  gallery.  "  She's 
blue  'n  peaked  about  the  jaws.  Old  age,  heh  ?  " 

"  Not  a  bit  of  it !  "  rejoined  Preston,  quickly.  "  She's 
a  young  woman,  comparatively.  It's  Jem.  Colonel 
James.  She's  done  tired  out  waitin'  on  that  man. 
These  last  two  year  she's  took  to  expectin'  him  every 
day.  She  watches  the  train  night  'n  morriin'.  It  'ud 
make  yoh  sick  to  see  her  old  face  when  it  goes  by." 

"Natuhlly,"  the  Colonel  struck  in  pompously,  "we 
want  to  make  Miss  Dilly  happy  to-morrow,  long  o'  the 
rest.  She  doan  forget  none  of  us  in  her  knittin's  an 
buyin's,  I'll  warrant !  I  says  to  the  Squire  hyah, 
'  Suppose  de  clarin'  corn-bine,  '11  buy  somethiii'  wuth 
while  —  a  cheer  or  new  calico  or  somethiii'.'  But  he 
says,  '  Whah's  de  use  ?  '  he  says,  '  she  wants  nothin' 
but  her  brother.  Kin  we  give  her  her  brother  ? '  So 
thah's  how  it  is  !  "  filling  his  pipe  with  a  gloomy  nod. 

The  men  glanced  furtively  at  Miss  Dilly,  who,  in 
her  blue  gown  and  white  apron,  stood  in  the  yard 
below,  feeding  a  noisy  flock  of  chickens. 

The  sun  going  down  through  a  frosty  sky  threw  red 
lights  upon  the  vast  white  plains  and  the  cluster  of 
little  gray  houses  huddled  closely  together.  Their 
hoods  of  feathered,  crusted  snow  made  them  almost 
picturesque. 

Across  the  road  came  a  black,  paunchy  figure.  It 
was  Nutt,  the  carpenter,  who  kept  the  post-office  in  a 
box  in  his  shop. 

"What  ails  Jabez  ?  "  wondered  the  Colonel.  "  Some- 
thin's  happened." 

Nutt  hurried  up  the  steps.     "  Mail's  in,  gentlemen. 


AT  THE  STATION'  19 

Two  circuelars  an'  this  letter.  Foh  Miss  Billy.  I 
just  run  over  with  it ;  I  thought  — 

"  Quite  right,  quite  right !  "  exclaimed  Father  Rug- 
gles.  "  It  may  be  — " 

The  men  all  rose  in  their  excitement.  "  Do  you 
give  it  to  her,  Squire,"  said  the  old  minister.  "You've 
been  her  best  friend." 

Miss  Dilly  came  up  the  steps.  The  Squire  handed 
her  the  letter  without  a  word.  His  red,  pudgy  face 
fell  into  queer  grimaces  as  lie  watched  her. 

"  Foh  me  !     A  letter  !     Foh  —  ?  " 

The  blood  stopped  in  her  old  body  as  she  took  it, 
smiling  but  very  pale.  When  she  saw  the  writing  on 
the  envelope  she  turned  and  went  to  her  own  room 
and  shut  the  door. 

The  news  spread.  In  ten  minutes  the  whole  clarin' 
was  gathered  011  the  gallery. 

"It  may  not  be  from  Colonel  James  at  all,"  sug 
gested  Jabez.  "  It  may  be  on  business." 

"  Business  !  Doan  be  an  ass,  Jabez  Nutt,"  said  the 
Colonel. 

The  station  waited  breathless. 

She  came  out  at  last,  her  face  shining  with  a  great 
inward  peace. 

"  Jem,"  she  said  to  them  in  a  low,  quiet  voice,  "  has 
gone  back  to  our  house  on  the  Old  Black,  an'  put  it 
an'  the  farm  to  rights,  an'  him  an'  me  is  to  live  thah 
together.  He's  comin'  to-night  on  the  train." 

Nobody  spoke.  The  tremendous  tidings  took  their 
breath. 

« An'  —  an'  when  is  yoh  a-goin',  Miss  Dilly  ? " 
gasped  Sam,  who  was  the  first  to  recover. 


20  SILHOUETTES   OF  AMERICAN  LIFE 

"Not  jest  right  away.  He'll  stay  hyah  a  week,  to 
see  his  old  friends,"  she  said.  "An'  —  thah's  the 
train!"  Then  she  broke  down  and  began  to  tremble 
and  cry.  The  women  gathered  about  her  and  cried 
too,  while  they  smoothed  her  hair  and  re-pinned  her 
handkerchiefs. 

The  men  hurried  down  to  meet  the  train. 

"  What  an  occasion  to-morrow'll  be  !  "  panted  Squire 
Barr.  "It's  nothin'  short  of  providential  that  the 
Colonel  shud  come  on  this  Christmas.  Father  Ilug- 
gles  hyah  'n  all.  The  station  kin  give  him  a  suitable 
reception.  Ef  the  turkeys  only  hold  out !  I  count  on 
you  foli  the  coffee,  Roy  all." 

"You  kin.  But  it  isn't  victuals  I'm  keeriii'  foh, 
sah,"  said  the  Colonel,  with  a  quaver  of  genuine  feel 
ing  in  his  voice.  "  It's  thet  pore  soul  yonder.  God- 
amighty  lies  sent  her  her  Christmas  gift,  shore.  Hyar's 
the  train,  gentlemen  !  " 

It  rolled  up  the  track  —  stopped. 

A  short,  heavy  man,  with  gray  hair  and  a  kind, 
resolute  face,  came  out  on  the  platform. 

"  Thet's  him  !  Thet's  Jem  ! "  shouted  the  Colonel. 
Then  they  all  broke  into  a  rousing  cheer,  pressing 
round  him,  waving  their  hats,  and  shaking  his  hand* 
after  the  hearty  Southern  fashion. 

"  She's  up  thah,  Colonel,"  said  the  Squire.  "  Go 
right  away  up,  sah.  She's  been  waitin'  a  long  time." 


TIRAR   Y   SOULT 


"OOBERT  KNIGHT,  who  was  born,  bred,  and 
-L  u  trained  in  New  England,  suckled  on  her  creeds 
and  weaned  on  her  doubts,  went  directly  from  college 
to  a  Louisiana  plantation.  The  change,  as  he  felt, 
was  extreme. 

He  happened  to  go  in  this  way.  He  was  a  civil 
engineer.  A  company  was  formed  among  the  planters 
in  the  Gulf  parishes  to  drain  their  marshes  in  order 
to  establish  large  rice-farms.  James  B.  Eads,  who 
knew  Knight,  gave  his  name  to  them  as  that  of  a 
promising  young  fellow  who  was  quite  competent 
to  do  the  simple  work  that  they  required,  and  one, 
too,  who  would  probably  give  more  zeal  and  time 
to  it  than  would  a  man  whose  reputation  was  assured. 

After  Mr.  Knight  had  thoroughly  examined  the 
scene  of  operations,  he  was  invited  by  the  president 
of  the  company,  M.  de  Fourgon,  to  go  with  him  to  his 
plantation,  the  Lit  de  Fleurs,  where  he  would  meet 
the  directors  of  the  company. 

"  The  change  is  great  and  sudden,"  he  wrote  to  his 
confidential  friend,  Miss  Cramer.  "From  Boston  to 
the  Bed  of  Flowers,  from  the  Concord  School  of 

21 


22  SILHOUETTES   OF  AMERICAN  LIFE 

Philosophy  to  the  companionship  of  ex-slave-holders, 
from  Emerson  to  Gayarre !  I  expected  to  lose  my 
breath  mentally.  I  expected  to  find  the  plantation 
a  vast  exhibit  of  fertility,  disorder,  and  dirt ;  the  men, 
illiterate  lire-eaters;  the  women,  honris  such  as  our 
fathers  used  to  read  of  in  Tom  Moore.  Instead,  I 
find  the  farm,  huge,  it  is  true,  but  orderly ;  the  corn 
fields  are  laid  out  with  the  exact  neatness  of  a  Dutch 
garden.  The  Sugar  Works  are  run  by  skilled  German 
workmen.  The  directors  are  shrewd  and  wide-awake. 
Madame  de  Fourgon  is  a  fat,  commonplace  little 
woman.  There  are  other  women  —  the  house  swarms 
with  guests  —  but  not  an  houri  among  them.  Till 
to-morrow.  K.  K." 

The  conclusion  was  abrupt,  but  Knight  had  reached 
the  bottom  of  the  page  of  his  writing-pad,  lie  tore 
it  off,  put  it  in  a  business-envelope,  and  mailed  it. 
He  and  Miss  Cramer  observed  a  certain  manly  dis 
regard  to  petty  conventionalities.  He  wrote  to  her 
on  the  backs  of  old  envelopes,  scraps  of  wrapping- 
paper,  anything  that  came  first  to  hand.  She  liked 
it.  He  was  poor  and  she  was  poor,  and  they  were 
two  good  fellows  roughing  it  together.  They  de 
lighted  in  expressing  their  contempt  for  elegant  nick- 
nackery  of  any  sort,  in  dress,  literature,  or  religion. 

"  Give  me  the  honest  —  the  solid!"  was  Emma 
Cramer's  motto,  and  Knight  thought  the  sentiment 
very  high  and  fine.  Emma  herself  was  a  little  per 
son,  with  an  insignificant  nose,  and  a  skin,  hair,  and 
eyes  all  of  one  yellowish  tint.  A  certain  fiumness 
and  piquancy  of  dress  would  have  made  her  positively 
pretty.  But  she  went  about  in  a  tightly  fitting  gray 


TIRAR    Y  SOULT  23 

gown,  with  a  black  silk  handkerchief  knotted  about 
her  neck,  and  her  hair  in  a  small  knob  on  top. 

But,  blunt  as  she  was,  she  did  not  like  the  blunt 
ending  of  this  letter. 

What  were  the  women  like  who  were  not  houris  ? 
He  might  have  known  that  she  would  have  some  curi 
osity  about  them.  Had  they  any  intellectual  training 
whatever  ?  She  supposed  they  could  dance  and  sing 
and  embroider  like  those  poor  things  in  harems  — 

Miss  Cramer  lived  on  a  farm  near  the  Massachu 
setts  village  of  Throop.  That  evening,  after  she  had 
finished  her  work,  she  took  the  letter  over  to  read  to 
Mrs.  Knight.  There  were  no  secrets  in  any  letter  to 
her  from  Robert  which  his  mother  could  not  share. 
They  were  all  intimate  friends  together,  Mrs.  Knight 
being,  perhaps,  the  youngest  and  giddiest  of  the  three. 
The  Knights  knew  how  her  uncle  overworked  the  girl, 
for  Emma  was  an  orphan,  and  dependent  on  him. 
They  knew  all  the  kinds  of  medicine  she  took  for  her 
dyspepsia,  and  exactly  how  much  she  earned  by  writ 
ing  book-reviews  for  a  Boston  paper.  Emma,  too, 
could  tell  to  a  dollar  what  Robert's  yearly  expenses 
had  been  at  college.  They  had  all  shared  in  the 
terrible  anxiety  lest  no  position  should  offer  for  him, 
and  rejoiced  together  in  this  opening  in  Louisiana. 

Mrs.  Knight  ran  to  meet  her.  "  Oh,  you  have  had 
a  letter,  too  ?  Here  is  mine  !  " 

She  read  the  letter  with  nervous  nods  and  laughs 
of  exultation,  the  butterfly-bow  of  yellow  ribbon  in 
her  cap  fluttering  as  if  in  triumph.  Emma  sat  down 
on  the  steps  of  the  porch  with  an  odd,  chilled  feeling 
that  she  was  somehow  shut  out  from  the  victory. 


24  SILHOUETTES   OF  AMERICAN  LIFE 

"  The  l  Bed  of  Flowers  '  ?  What  a  peculiar  name 
for  a  farm  !  And  how  odd  it  was  in  this  Mr.  de  Four- 
gon  to  ask  Robert  to  stay  at  his  house  !  Do  you  sup 
pose  he  will  charge  him  boarding,  Emma  ?  " 

"No,  I  think  not." 

"  Well,  Robert  will  save  nothing  by  that.  He  must 
make  it  up  somehow.  I  wouldn't  have  him  under 
obligation  to  the  man  for  his  keep.  I've  written  to 
him  to  put  his  salary  in  the  Throop  Savings  Bank  till 
he  wants  to  invest  it.  He  will  have  splendid  chances 
for  investment,  travelling  over  the  country  —  East, 
West,  South  —  everywhere!  House  full  of  women? 
I  hope  he  will  not  be  falling  in  love  in  a  hurry. 
Robert  ought  to  marry  well  now." 

Miss  Cramer  said  nothing.  The  sun  had  set,  and  a 
cold  twilight  had  settled  down  over  the  rocky  fields, 
with  their  thin  crops  of  hay.  To  the  right  was  Mrs. 
Knight's  patch,  divided  into  tiny  beds  of  potatoes, 
corn,  and  cabbage.  As  Emma's  eyes  fell  on  it  she 
remembered  how  many  years  she  had  helped  the 
widow  rake  and  weed  that  field,  and  how  they  had 
triumphed  in  every  shilling  which  they  made  by  the 
garden-stuff.  For  Robert  —  all  for  Robert ! 

Now  he  had  laid  his  hand  on  the  world's  neck  and 
conquered  it !  North  and  West  and  that  great  tropical 
South,  with  its  flowers  and  houris  —  all  were  open  to 
him  !  She  looked  around  the  circle  of  barren  fields. 
He  had  gone  out  of  doors,  and  she  was  shut  in ! 

Mrs.  Knight  was  watching  her  with  her  vague  gray 
eyes.  She  felt  a  certain  pity  for  the  girl.  "  Take  a 
rose,  Emma,"  she  said,  plucking  one  which  was  a 
little  worm-eaten. 


TIRAR   Y  XOULT  25 

Emma  thanked  her,  bade  her  good-night,  and  went 
down  the  darkening  road  homeward.  She  looked  at 
the  rose,  laughed,  and  threw  it  away.  What  a  fool 
she  was !  The  fact  that  Robert  had  a  good  salary 
could  not  change  the  whole  order  of  the  world  in  a 
day.  Her  comradeship  with  Knight,  their  plans,  their 
sympathy  —  this  was  the  order  of  the  world  which 
seemed  eternal  and  solid  to  poor  Emma. 

"I  am  his  friend,"  she  told  herself  now.  "If  he 
had  twenty  wives,  none  of  them  could  take  my 
place." 

Now,  Knight  had  not  hinted  at  the  possibility  of 
wiving  in  his  letter.  There  had  never  been  a  word  or 
glance  of  love-making  between  him  and  Emma ;  yet 
she  saw  him,  quite  distinctly  now,  at  the  altar,  and 
beside  him  a  black-eyed  houri. 

She  entered  the  farm-house  by  the  kitchen-way. 
There  was  the  cold  squash  pie  ready  to  cut  for  break 
fast,  and  the  clothes  dampened  for  ironing.  Up  in 
her  own  bare  chamber  were  paper  and  ink  and  two 
books  for  review  —  "  Abstract  of  Greek  Philosophy  " 
and  "  Sub-drainage." 

These  reviews  were  one  way  in  which  she  had  tried 
to  interest  him.  Interest  him!  Greek  philosophy! 
Drainage ! 

She  threw  the  books  on  the  floor,  and,  running  to 
the  glass,  unloosened  her  hair  and  ran  her  fingers 
through  it,  tore  the  handkerchief  from  her  neck, 
scanned  with  a  breathless  eagerness  her  pale  eyes,  her 
freckled  skin,  and  shapeless  nose,  and  then,  burying 
her  face  in  her  hands,  turned  away  into  the  dark. 


26  SILHOUETTES   OF  AMERICAN  LIFE 

The  night  air  that  was  so  thin  and  chilly  in  Throop 
blew  over  the  Lit  cle  Fleurs  wet  and  heavy  with  the 
scents,  good  and  bad,  of  the  Gulf  marshes.  Madame 
de  Fourgon's  guests  had  left  the  supper-table,  and  were 
seated  on  the  low  gallery  which  ran  around  the  house, 
or  lounged  in  the  hammocks  that  swung  under  the 
huge  magnolias  on  the  lawn.  There  were  one  or  two 
women  of  undoubted  beauty  among  them  ;  but  Robert 
Knight  was  not  concerned,  that  night,  with  the  good- 
or  ill-looks  of  any  woman,  either  in  Throop  or  Louisi 
ana.  He  was  amused  by  a  new  companion,  a  Monsieur 
Tirar,  who  had  ridden  over  from  a  neighboring  plan 
tation.  Knight  at  first  took  him  for  an  overgrown 
boy ;  but  on  coming  close  to  him,  he  perceived  streaks 
of  gray  in  the  close-cut  hair  and  beard. 

Tirar  had  recited  and  acted  a  comic  story,  after 
dinner,  at  which  the  older  men  laughed  as  at  the 
capers  of  a  monkey.  While  they  were  at  cards  he 
played  croquet  with  the  children.  The  women  sent 
him  on  errands.  "  Jose',  my  thimble  is  in  the  library  ! " 
"  Jose,  do  see  where  the  nurse  has  taken  baby  ! "  etc. 

A  chair  had  been  brought  out  now  for  M.  de  Four- 
gon's  aunt,  an  old  woman  with  snowy  hair  and  deli 
cate,  high  features.  Jose  flew  to  bring  her  a  shawl 
and  wrapped  it  about  her.  She  patted  him  on  his  fat 
cheek,  telling  Knight,  as  he  capered  away,  how  invalu 
able  was  the  clier  enfant. 

"He  made  that  Creole  sauce  to-day.  Ah,  the  petit 
gourmand  has  many  secrets  of  crabs  and  soups.  He 
says  the  chefs  in  Paris  confide  in  him,  but  they  are 
original,  monsieur ;  they  are  born  in  Jose's  leetle 
brain"  —tapping  her  own  forehead. 


TIE  All    Y  SOULT  27 

"  All,  hear  him  now  !  'Tis  the  voice  of  a  seraph  !  " 
She  threw  up  her  hands,  to  command  silence  in  earth 
and  sky  ;  leaning  back  and  closing  her  eyes,  while  the 
little  man,  seated  with  his  guitar  at  the  feet  of  a 
pretty  girl,  sang.  Even  Knight's  sluggish  nerves 
were  thrilled.  He  had  never  heard  such  a  voice  as 
this.  It  wrung  his  heart  with  its  dateless  pain  and 
pathos.  Ashamed  of  his  emotion,  he  turned  to  go 
away.  But  there  was  a  breathless  silence  about  him. 
The  Creoles  all  love  music,  and  Jose's  voice  was 
famous  throughout  the  Gulf  parishes.  Even  the 
negro  nurses  stood  staring  and  open-mouthed. 

The  song  ended  and  Tirar  lounged  into  the  house. 

"  Queer  dog  !  "  said  M.  de  Eourgon.  "  He  will  not 
touch  a  guitar  again  perhaps  for  months." 

"  He  would  sing  if  I  ask  it,"  said  the  old  lady.  "  He 
has  reverence  for  the  age." 

M.  de  Fourgon,  behind  her,  lifted  his  eyebrows. 
"  Jose,"  he  said,  aside  to  Knight,  "  is  a  good  fellow 
enough  up  here  among  the  women  and  babies  j  but 
he  has  had  the  jeunesse  orageuse :  with  his  own  crew, 
at  the  St.  Charles,  there  is  110  more  rakehelly  scamp 
in  New  Orleans." 

"  Is  he  a  planter  ?  "  asked  the  curious  New  Eng- 
lander. 

Madame  Bessaix's  keen  ears  caught  the  question. 

"  Ah,  the  poor  lad  !  he  has  no  land,  not  an  acre  ! 
His  father  was  a  Spaniard,  Ruy  Tirar,  who  married 
Bonaventura  Soult.  The  Soult  and  Tirar  plantations 
were  immense  on  the  Bayou  Sara.  Jose's  father 
had  his  share.  But  crevasse  —  cards  —  the  war  —  all 
gone  !  "  —  opening  wide  her  hands.  "  When  your  gov- 


28  SILHOUETTES   OF  AMERICAN  LIFE 

eminent  declared  peace,  it  left  our  poor  Jose,  at 
twenty,  with  the  income  of  a  beggar." 

"But  that  was  twenty  years  ago,"  said  Knight. 
"  Could  he  not  retrieve  his  fortune  by  his  profession 
—  business  ?  What  does  he  do  ?  " 

"  Do  ?  do  ?  "  —  she  turned  an  amazed,  perplexed 
face  from  one  to  the  other.  "  Docs  he  think  that 
Jose  shall  work  ?  Jose  ?  Mon  Diau  !  " 

"  Tirar,"  said  M.  de  Fourgon,  laughing,  "  is  not  pre 
cisely  a  business  man,  Mr.  Knight.  He  has  countless 
friends  and  kinsfolk.  We  are  all  cousins  of  the  Tirars 
or  Soults.  He  is  welcome  everywhere." 

"  Oh  !  "  said  Knight,  with  a  significant  nod.  Even 
in  his  brief  stay  in  this  neighborhood,  he  had  found 
other  men  than  Jose  living  in  absolute  idleness  in  a 
community  which  was  no  longer  wealthy.  They  were 
neither  old,  ill,  nor  incapable.  It  was  simply  not  their 
humor  to  work.  They  were  supported,  and  as  care 
fully  guarded  as  pieces  of  priceless  porcelain.  It  is  a 
lax,  extravagant  feature  of  life,  as  natural  to  Louisi 
ana  as  it  is  impossible  to  Connecticut. 

It  irritated  Knight,  yet  attracted  him,  as  any  nov 
elty  does  a  young  man.  He  turned  away  from  his 
companions,  and  sauntered  up  and  down  in  the  twi 
light.  To  live  without  work  on  those  rich,  prodigal 
prairies,  never  to  think  of  to-morrow,  to  give  without 
stint,  even  to  lazy  parasites  —  there  was  something 
royal  about  that.  It  touched  his  fancy.  He  had 
known,  remember,  nothing  but  Throop  and  hard  work 
for  twenty-two  years. 

The  air  had  grown  chilly.  Inside,  M.  Tirar  had 
kindled  a  huge  fire  on  the  hearth.  He  was  kneeling, 


TIRAR   Y  SOULT  20 

fanning  it  with  the  bellows,  while  a  young  girl  leaned 
indolently  against  the  mantel,  watching  the  flames, 
and  now  and  then  motioning  to  Jos6  to  throw  011 
another  log.  The  trifling  action  startled  Knight 
oddly.  How  they  wasted  that  wood !  All  through 
his  boyhood  he  had  to  gather  and  save  every  twig 
and  chip.  How  often  he  had  longed  to  make  one  big, 
wasteful  fire,  as  they  were  doing  now. 

The  young  lady  was  a  Miss  Venn,  who  had  been 
civil  to  him.  It  occurred  to  him  that  she  was  the  very 
embodiment  of  the  lavish  life  of  this  place.  He  did 
not,  then  or  afterward,  consider  whether  she  was  beau 
tiful  or  not.  But  the  soft,  loose  masses  of  reddish 
hair,  and  the  large,  calm,  blue  eyes,  must,  he  thought, 
belong  to  a  woman  who  was  a  generous  spendthrift  of 
life. 

Perhaps  Knight  was  at  heart  a  spendthrift.  At  all 
events,  he  suddenly  felt  a  strange  eagerness  to  become 
better  acquainted  with  Miss  Venn.  He  sought  her 
out,  the  next  morning,  among  the  groups  under  the 
magnolias.  There  could  be  no  question  that  she  was 
stupid.  She  had  read  nothing  but  her  Bible  and  the 
stories  in  the  newspapers,  and  had  no  opinions  about 
either.  But  she  confessed  to  ignorance  of  nothing, 
lying  with  the  most  placid,  innocent  smile. 

"  l  Hamlet  ?  '  Oh,  yes  ;  I  read  that  when  it  first 
came  out.  But  those  things  slip  through  my  mind 
like  water  through  a  sieve." 

To  Eobert,  whose  mind  had  long  been  rasped  by 
Emma's  prickly  ideas,  this  dulness  was  as  a  downy  bed 
of  ease.  Emma  was  perpetually  struggling  after  prog 
ress  with  every  power  of  her  brain.  It  never  occurred 


30  SILHOUETTES   OF  AMERICAN  LIFE 

to  Lucretia  Venn  to  plan  what  she  would  do  to-morrow, 
or  at  any  future  time.  In  Throop,  too,  there  was  much 
hard  prejudice  between  the  neighbors.  To  be  clever 
was  to  have  a  sharp  acerbity  of  wit ;  Emma's  sarcasms 
cut  like  a  thong.  But  these  people  were  born  kind; 
they  were  friendly  to  all  the  world,  while  in  Lucretia 
there  was  a  soft  affluence  of  nature  which  made  her 
the  centre  of  all  this  warm,  pleasant  life.  The  old 
people  called  her  by  some  pet  name,  the  dogs  followed 
her,  the  children  climbed  into  her  lap.  Knight  with 
her  felt  like  a  traveller  who  has  been  long  lost  on  a 
bare,  cold  marsh  and  has  come  into  a  lire-lighted, 
hospitable  room. 

One  afternoon  he  received  the  card  of  M.  Jose  Tirar 
y  Soult,  who  came  to  call  upon  him  formally.  The 
little  fop  was  dazzling  in  white  linen,  diamond  soli 
taires  blazing  on  his  breast  and  wrists. 

"  You  go  to  ride  ? "  he  said,  as  the  horses  were 
brought  round.  "  Lucrezia,  my  child,  you  go  to  ride  ? 
It  portends  rain  "  —  hopping  to  the  edge  of  the  gal 
lery.  "  You  will  take  cold ! " 

"  There  is  not  a  cloud  in  the  sky,"  said  M.  de  Four- 
gon.  "  Come,  Lucretia,  mount !  Jose  always  fancies 
you  on  the  edge  of  some  calamity." 

"  It  goes  to  storm,"  persisted  Tirar.  "  You  must 
wear  a  heavier  habit,  ma  petite" 

Miss  Venn  laughed,  ran  to  her  own  room,  and 
changed  her  habit. 

u  What  way  shall  you  ride  ?  "  Jose  anxiously  in 
quired  of  Knight. 

"  To  the  marshes." 

"It  is  very  dangerous  there,  Monsieur.     There  are 


TIRAR    Y  SOULT  31 

herds  of  wild  cattle,  and  slippery  ground"  —  fuming 
up  and  down  the  gallery.  "  Chut !  Tirar  himself  will 
go.  I  will  not  see  the  child's  life  in  risk  —  me  ! " 

Knight  was  annoyed.  "What  relation  does  Mon 
sieur  Tirar  hold  to  Miss  Venn  ?  "  he  asked  his  host, 
apart.  "  He  assumes  the  control  of  a  father  over  her." 

"  He  is  her  cousin.  He  used  to  nurse  the  child  on 
his  knee,  and  he  does  not  realize  that  she  has  grown 
to  be  a  woman.  Oh,  yes,  the  poor  little  man  loves 
her  as  if  she  were  his  own  child  !  When  their  grand 
father,  Louis  Soult,  died,  two  years  ago,  he  left  all  his 
estate  to  Lucretia,  and  not  a  dollar  to  Jose.  It  was 
brutal !  But  Jose  was  delighted.  ( A  woman  must 
have  money,  or  she  is  cold  in  the  world,'  he  said. 
'  But  to  shorn  lambs,  like  me,  every  wind  is  tem 
pered.'  " 

Mr.  Knight  was  thoughtful  during  the  first  part  of 
the  ride.  "I  did  not  know,"  he  said,  presently,  to 
young  McCann,  from  St.  Louis,  a  stranger  like  him 
self,  "that  Miss  Venn  was  a  wealthy  woman." 

"  Oh,  yes,  the  largest  land-holder  in  this  parish,  arid 
ten  thousand  a  year,  clear,  besides." 

Ten  thousand  a  year !  And  Emma  drudging  till 
midnight  for  two  or  three  dollars  a  column  !  Poor 
Emma!  A  gush  of  unwonted  tenderness  filled  his 
heart.  The  homely,  faithful  soul! 

Ten  thousand  a  year?  Knight  would  have  been 
humiliated  to  think  that  this  money  could  change  his 
feeling  to  the  young  woman  who  owned  it.  But  it  did 
change  it.  She  was  no  longer  only  a  dull,  fascinating 
appeal  to  his  imagination.  She  was  a  power ;  some 
thing  to  be  regarded  with  respect,  like  a  Building 


32  SILHOUETTES   OF  AMERICAN  LIFE 

Association  or  a  Pacific  Railway.  But  for  some  unex 
plained  reason  he  carefully  avoided  her  during  the  ride. 
Miss  Venn  was  annoyed  at  this  desertion,  and  showed 
it  as  a  child  would  do.  She  beckoned  him  again  and 
again  to  look  at  a  heron's  nest,  or  at  the  water-snakes 
darting  through  the  edges  of  the  bayou,  or  at  a  family 
of  chameleons  who  were  keeping  house  on  a  prickly- 
pear.  Finding  that  he  did  not  stay  at  her  side,  she 
gave  up  her  innocent  wiles,  at  last,  and  rode  on  in 
silence.  M.  Tirar  then  flung  himself  headlong  into 
the  breach.  He  poured  forth  information  about  Louis 
iana  for  Knight's  benefit,  with  his  own  flighty  opinions 
tagged  thereto.  He  told  stories  and  laughed  at  them 
louder  than  anybody  else,  l}is  brown  eyes  dancing  with 
fun;  but  through  all  he  kept  a  furtive  watch  upon 
Lucretia,  to  see  the  effect  upon  her. 

They  had  now  reached  the  marshes  which  lie  along 
the  Gulf.  They  were  covered  with  a  thin  grass,  which 
shone,  bright  emerald,  in  the  hot  noon.  The  tide  soaked 
the  earth  beneath,  and  drove  back  the  narrow  lagoons 
that  were  creeping  seaward.  A  herd  of  raw-boned  cat 
tle  wandered  aimlessly  over  the  spongy  surface,  doubt 
ful  whether  the  land  was  water,  or  the  water,  land. 
They  staggered  as  they  walked,  from  sheer  weakness ; 
one  steer  fell  exhausted,  and  as  Lucretia's  horse  passed, 
it  lifted  its  head  feebly,  looked  at  her  with  beseeching 
eyes,  and  dropped  it  again.  A  flock  of  buzzards  in  the 
distance  scented  their  prey  and  began  to  swoop  down 
out  of  the  clear  sky,  flashes  of  black  across  the  vivid 
green  of  the  prairie,  with  low  and  lower  dips  until  they 
alighted,  quivering,  on  the  dying  beast  and  began  to 
tear  the  flesh  from  its  side. 


TIRAR    Y  SOULT  ,'53 

Jose  rode  them  clown,  yelling  with  rage.  He  came 
back  jabbering  in  Spanish  and  looking  gloomily  over 
the  vast,  empty  marsh.  "  I  hate  death  anywhere,  but 
this  is  wholesale  murder !  These  wretched  Cajans  of 
the  marsh  raise  larger  herds  than  they  can  feed ;  they 
starve  by  the  hundreds.  That  poor  beast  is  dead  — 
thanks  be  to  God ! "  After  a  pause.  "Well,  well ! "  he 
cried,  with  a  shrug,  "your  syndicate  will  soon  convert 
this  delta  into  solid  ground,  Mr.  Knight;  it  is  a  noble 
work  !  Vast  fortunes  "  — with  a  magniloquent  sweep 
of  his  arm  —  "  lie  hidden  under  this  mud." 

"Why  don't  you  take  a  share  in  the  noble  work, 
then?"  asked  McCann.  "That  is,  if  it  would  not 
interfere  with  your  other  occupations  ?  " 

"Me  ?  I  have  110  occupations  !  What  work  should 
I  do  ?  "  asked  Jose,  with  a  fillip  of  his  pudgy  fingers. 
Presently  he  galloped  up  to  Miss  Venn's  side  with  an 
anxious  face. 

"  Lucrezia,  my  child,  has  it  occurred  to  you  that  you 
would  like  me  better  if  I  were  doctor,  or  lawyer,  or 
something  ?  " 

She  looked  at  him,  bewildered,  but  said  nothing. 

" It  has  not  occurred  to  me"  he  went  on,  seriously. 
"  I  have  three,  four  hundred  dollars  every  year  to  buy 
my  clothes.  I  have  the  Tirar  jewellery.  What  more 
do  I  want  ?  Everything  I  need  comes  to  me." 

"Certainly,  why  not?"  she  answered,  absently,  her 
eyes  wandering  in  search  of  something  across  the  marsh. 

"  Then  you  do  not  mind  ?  "  he  persisted,  anxiously. 
"I  wish  my  little  girl  to  be  pleased  with  old  Jose*. 
As  for  the  rest  of  the  world  "  —  he  cracked  his  thumb 
contemptuously. 


34  SILHOUETTES   OF  AMERICAN  LIFE 

Miss  Venn  smiled  faintly.  She  had  not  even  heard 
him.  She  was  watching  Knight,  who  had  left  the 
party  and  was  riding  homeward  alone.  Jose  fancied 
there  were  tears  in  her  eyes. 

"  Lucrezia ! " 

No  answer. 

"  Lucrezia,  do  not  worry  !     /  am  here." 

"You!  Oh,  Mon  Dieu!  You  are  always  here!" 
she  broke  forth,  pettishly. 

Jose  gasped  as  if  he  had  been  struck,  then  he  reined 
in  his  horse,  falling  back,  while  Mr.  McCann  gladly 
took  his  place. 

M.  Tirar,  after  that  day,  did  not  return  to  the  plan 
tation.  Once  he  met  M.  de  Fourgon  somewhere  in 
the  parish,  and  with  a  sickly  smile  asked  if  Lucretia 
were  in  good  health.  "Remember,  Jean,"  he  added, 
earnestly,  riding  with  him  a  little  way,  "  /  am  that 
little  girl's  guardian.  If  she  ever  marry,  it  is  Jose 
who  must  give  her  away.  So  ridiculous  in  her  father 
to  make  a  foolish  young  fellow  like  me  her  guar 
dian  ! " 

"Not  at  all!  No,  indeed!  Very  proper,  Tirar," 
said  M.  de  Fourgon,  politely,  at  which  Jose's  face 
grew  still  paler  and  more  grave. 

One  day  he  appeared  about  noon  on  the  gallery. 
His  shoes  were  muddy,  his  clothes  the  color  of  a 
bedraggled  moth. 

"All,  mon  enfant!"  cried  Madame  Dessaix,  kindly, 
from  her  chair  in  a  shady  corner.  "  What  is  wrong  ? 
No  white  costume  this  day,  no  diamonds,  no  laugh  ? 
What  is  it,  Jose  ?  " 

"Nothing,  madame,"  said  the  little  man,  drearily. 


TIRAR    Y  SOULT  3.) 

"  I  grow  old.  I  dress  no  more  as  a  young  man.  I 
accommodate  myself  to  the  age —  the  wrinkles." 

"  '  Wrinkles  '  ?  Bah  !  Come  and  sit  by  me.  For 
whom  is  it  that  yon  look  ?  " 

"  But  —  I  thought  I  heard  Lucrezia  laugli  as  I  rode 
up  the  levee  ?  " 

Madame  Dessaix  nodded  significantly  and,  putting 
her  fingers  on  her  lips,  with  all  the  delight  that  a 
Frenchwoman  takes  in  lovers,  led  him,  on  tip-toe,  to 
the  end  of  the  gallery  and,  drawing  aside  the  vines, 
showed  him  Lucretia  in  a  hammock  under  a  gigantic 
pecan-tree.  A  mist  of  hanging  green  moss  closed 
about  her.  She  lay  in  it  as  a  soft,  white  bird  in 
a  huge  nest.  Knight  stood  leaning  against  the  trunk 
of  the  tree,  looking  down  at  her,  his  thin  face  intent 
and  heated.  He  had  spoken  to  her,  but  she  did  not 
answer.  She  smiled  lazily,  as  she  did  when  the  chil 
dren  patted  her  on  the  cheek. 

"  Voil<1 ! "  whispered  Madame  Dessaix,  triumphantly. 
Then  she  glanced  at  M.  Tirar,  finding  that  he  looked 
011  in  silence.  He  roused  himself,  with  a  queer  noise 
in  his  throat. 

"Yes,  yes!     Now  —  what  does  she  answer  him?" 

"Mdre  de  Dien!  What  can  she  answer?  He  is 
young.  He  is  a  man  who  has  his  own  way.  He  will 
have  no  answer  but  the  one  !  We  consider  the  affair 
finished ! " 

Tirar  made  no  comment.  He  turned  and  walked 
quickly  down  to  the  barnyard,  where  the  children 
were,  and  stood  among  them  and  the  cows  for  awhile. 
The  stable-boys,  used  to  jokes  and  picayunes  from 
him,  turned  hand-springs  and  sky-larked  under  his 


30  SILHOUETTES   OF  AMERICAN  LIFE 

feet.  Finding  that  lie  neither  laughed  nor  swore  at 
them,  they  began  to  watch  him  more  narrowly,  and 
noticed  his  shabby  clothes  with  amazed  contempt. 

"J)oii  Jose  seek,  ta-ta ! "  they  whispered.  "Don 
Jose,  yo'  no  see  mud  on  yo'  clo'es  ?  " 

But  he  stood  leaning  over  the  fence,  deaf  and  blind 
to  them. 

His  tormentors  tried  another  point  of  attack.  "Don 
Jose  no  seek,  but  his  mare  seek.  Poor  Chiquita ! 
She  old  horse  now." 

"  It's  a  damned  lie  !  "  Tirar  turned  on  the  boy  with 
such  fury  that  he  jumped  back.  "She's  Mot  old. 
Bring  her  out !  " 

The  negroes  tumbled  over  each  other  in  tl  ieir  fright. 
The  little  white  mare  was  led  out.  Jose  Kitted  her 
with  trembling  hands.  Whatever  great  t  xmble  had 
shaken  him  turned  for  the  moment  into  tip's  petty  out 
let. 

"  There  is  not  such  a  horse  in  Attakapas  ! "  he  mut 
tered  to  himself.  "  I  am  old,  but  she  is  young  ! "  The 
mare  whinnied  with  pleasure  as  he  stroked  her  and 
mounted. 

As  he  rode  from  the  enclosure  a  clumsy  bay  horse 
was  led  out  of  the  stable.  Knight  came  down  the 
levee  to  meet  it.  Jose"  scanned  it  with  fierce  contempt. 
"  Ah,  the  low-born  beast !  And  its  master  is  no  other 
wise  !  But  who  can  tell  what  shall  please  the  little 
girl?" 

But  Tirar  could  not  shut  his  eyes  to  the  fact  that 
the  figure  on  the  heavy  horse  was  manly  and  fine.  The 
courage  in  his  heart  was  at  its  lowest  ebb. 

"  Jose  is  old  and  fat  —  fat.    That  is  a  young  fellow  — 


T1RAR    Y  SOULT  (ft 

he  is  like  a  man  !  "  His  chin  quivered  like  a  hysteric 
woman's.  The  next  minute  he  threw  himseli'  on  the 
mare's  neek. 

"I    have    only   you   now,    Chiquita !     Nobody    but 


She  threw  back  her  cars  and  skimmed  across  the 
prairie  with  the  hoof  of  a  deer.  When  he  passed 
Knight,  M.  Tirar  saluted  him  with  profound  courtesy. 

"Funny  little  man,"  said  Robert  to  McCann,  who 
had  joined  him.  "You  might  call  him  a  note  of  ex 
aggeration  in  the  world.  I>ut  that  is  a  fine  horse  that 
he  rides." 

"Yes;  a  famous  racer  in  her  day,  they  tell  me. 
Tirar  talks  of  her  as  if  she  were  a  blood-relation.  I 
wish  we  had  horses  of  her  build  just  now.  That  brute 
of  yours  sinks  in  the  mud  with  every  step." 

"  It  is  deeper  than  usual  to-day.  1  don't  understand 
it.  We  have  had  no  rain." 

They  separated  in  a  few  minutes,  Knight  taking  his 
way  to  the  sea-marshes. 

The  marshes  were  always  silent,  but  there  was  a 
singular,  deep  stillness  upon  them  to-day.  The  sun 
was  hidden  by  low-hanging  mists,  but  it  turned  them 
into  tent-like  veils  of  soft,  silvery  brilliance.  The 
colors  and  even  the  scents  of  the  marshes  were  oddly 
intensified  beneath  them;  the  air  held  the  strong 
smells  of  the  grass  and  roses  motionless ;  the  lagoons, 
usually  chocolate-colored,  were  inky  black  between 
their  fringes  of  yellow  and  purple  flags  ;  the  countless 
circular  pools  of  clear  water  seemed  to  have  increased 
in  number,  and  leaped  and  bubbled  as  if  alive. 

If  poor  Emma  could  but   turn  her  eyes  from  the 


38  SILHOUETTES   OF  AMERICAN  LIFE 

barren  fields  of  Throop  to  this  strange,  enchanted 
plain ! 

He  checked  himself.  What  right  had  he  to  wish 
for  Emma  ?  Lucretia  — 

But  Lucretia  would  see  nothing  in  it  but  mud  and 
weeds ! 

Lucretia  was  a  dear  soul ;  but  after  all,  he  thought, 
with  a  laugh,  her  best  qualities  were  those  of  an 
amiable  cow.  That  very  day  he  had  brought  himself 
to  make  love  to  her  with  as  much  force  as  his  brain 
could  put  into  words,  and  she  had  listened  with  the 
amused,  pleased,  ox-like  stare  of  one  of  these  cattle 
when  its  sides  were  tickled  by  the  long  grass.  She 
had  given  him  no  definite  answer. 

Knight  ploughed  his  way  through  the  spongy  prai 
rie,  therefore,  in  a  surly  ill-humor,  which  the  unusual 
depth  of  mud  did  not  make  more  amiable.  He  was 
forced  to  ride  into  the  bayoux  every  few  minutes  to 
wash  the  clammy  lumps  from  the  legs  of  his  horse. 

Where  M.  Tirar  went  that  day,  he  himself,  when 
afternoon  came,  could  not  have  told  distinctly.  He 
had  a  vague  remembrance  that  he  had  stopped  at  one 
or  two  Acadian  farm-houses  for  no  purpose  whatever. 
He  was  not  a  drinking  man,  and  had  tasted  nothing 
but  water  all  day,  yet  his  brain  was  stunned  and 
bruised,  as  if  he  was  rousing  from  a  long  debauch. 
When  he  came  to  himself  he  was  on  the  lower  marshes. 
Chiquita  had  suddenly  stopped,  planted  her  legs  apart 
like  a  mule,  and  refused  to  budge  an  inch  farther. 
What  ailed  this  bayou  ?  It,  too,  had  come  to  a  halt, 
and  had  swollen  into  a  stagnant  black  pond. 

Jose  was  altogether   awake   now.     He  understood 


TIRAR   Y  SOULT  39 

what  had  happened.  A  heavy  spring  tide  in  the  Gulf 
had  barred  all  outlet  for  the  bayoux,  which  cut  through 
the  marshes.  The  great  river,  for  which  they  were 
but  mouths,  was  already  forcing  its  way  over  their 
banks  and  oozing  through  all  the  spongy  soil.  There 
was  no  immediate  danger  of  his  drowning ;  but  unless 
ho  made  instant  escape,  there  was  a  certainty  that  he 
would  be  held  and  sucked  into  the  vast  and  rapidly 
spreading  quicksands  of  mud  until  he  did  drown. 

If  Chiquita— ? 

He  wheeled  her  head  to  the  land  and  called  to  her. 
She  began  to  move  Avith  extreme  caution,  testing  each 
step,  now  and  then  leaping  to  a  hummock  of  solid 
earth.  Twice  she  stopped  and  changed  her  course. 
Jose  dismounted  several  times  and  tried  to  lead  her. 
But  he  soon  was  bogged  knee-deep.  He  saAV  that  the 
instinct  of  the  horse  was  safer  than  his  judgment,  and 
at  last  sat  quietly  in  the  saddle.  At  ordinary  times 
he  would  have  sworn  and  scolded,  and,  perhaps,  being 
alone,  have  shed  tears,  for  Jose"  was  at  heart  a  coward 
and  dearly  loved  his  life. 

But  to-day  it  was  low  tide  in  the  little  man's  heart. 
The  bulk  of  life  had  gone  from  him  with  Lucretia. 
His  love  for  her  had  given  him  dignity  in  his  own 
eyes ;  without  her  he  was  a  poor  buffoon,  who  car 
ried  his  jokes  from  house  to  house  in  payment  for 
alms. 

He  did  what  he  could,  however,  to  save  his  life, 
rationally  enough  —  threw  off  his  heavy  boots,  and 
the  Spanish  saddle,  to  lighten  the  load  on  the  mare, 
patted  her,  sang  and  laughed  to  cheer  her.  Once,  when 
the  outlook  was  desperate,  he  jumped  off.  "She  shall 


40  SILHOUETTES   OF  AMERICAN  LIFE 

not  die ! "  he  said,  fiercely.  He  tried  to  drive  her 
away,  but  she  stood  still,  gazing  at  him  wistfully. 

"  Aha ! "  shouted  Jose,  delighted,  nodding  to  some 
invisible  looker-on.  "Do  you  see  that  ?  She  will  not 
forsake  me !  So,  my  darling !  You  and  Tirar  will 
keep  together  to  the  last."  He  mounted  again. 

Chiquita,  after  that,  made  slow  but  steady  progress. 
She  reached  a  higher  plateau.  Even  there  the  pools 
were  rapidly  widening;  the  oozing  jetty  water  began 
to  shine  between  the  blades  of  grass.  In  less  than 
an  hour  this  level  also  would  be  in  the  sea. 

But  in  less  than  an  hour  Chiquita  would  have  brought 
him  to  dry  ground. 

Jose  talked  to  her  incessantly  now,  in  Spanish, 
arguing  as  to  this  course  or  that. 

"  Ha  !  What  is  that  ?  "  he  cried,  pulling  her  up. 
"  That  black  lump  by  the  bayou?  A  man  —  no!  A 
horse  and  man !  They  are  sinking  —  held  fast !  " 

He  was  silent  a  moment,  panting  with  excitement. 
Then — "It  is  Knight!"  he  shouted.  "Caught  like 
a  rat  in  a  trap  !  He  will  die  —  thanks  be  to  God  !  " 

If  Knight  were  dead,  Lueretia  would  be  his  own 
little  girl  again. 

The  thought  was  the  flash  of  a  moment.  Knight's 
back  was  toward  him.  Jose,  unseen,  waited  irresolute. 

After  the  first  murderous  triumph  he  hoped  Kobert 
could  be  saved.  Tirar  was  a  coward,  but  at  bottom  he 
was  a  man  —  how  much  of  a  man  remained  to  be 
proved.  The  longer  he  looked  at  the  engineer,  the 
more  he  hated  him,  with  a  blind,  childish  fury. 

"  But  I  am  not  murderer  —  I !  "  he  said  to  himself, 
mechanically,  again  and  again. 


TIRAR   Y  SOULT  41 

Chiquita  pawed,  impatient  to  be  off.  The  water 
was  rising  about  her  hoofs.  It  sparkled  now  every 
where  below  the  reeds.  Death  was  waiting  for  both 
the  men  —  a  still,  silent,  certain  death  —  the  more 
horrible  because  there  was  no  fury  or  darkness  in  it. 
The  silvery  mist  still  shut  the  world  in,  like  the  walls 
of  a  tent;  the  purple  and  yellow  flags  shone  tran 
quilly  in  the  quiet  light ;  overhead,  the  black,  darting 
buzzards  swooped  lower  and  lower.  Tirar,  seeing 
them,  gnashed  his  teeth. 

Chiquita  could  save  one  man,  and  but  one. 

The  Tirars  and  Soults  had  been  men  of  courage 
and  honor  for  generations.  Their  blood  was  quicken 
ing  in  his  fat  little  body. 

A  thought  struck  him  like  a  stab  from  a  knife.  "If 
Knight  dies,  it  will  break  her  heart.  But  me  !  "  Then 
he  cracked  his  thumb  contemptuously.  "  What  does 
she  care  for  poor  old  Jose  ?  " 

We  will  not  ask  what  passed  in  his  heart  during  the 
next  ten  minutes. 

He  and  his  God  were  alone  together. 

He  came  up  to  Knight  and  tapped  him  on  the 
shoulder.  "Hello!  What's  wrong?" 

"  I'm  bogged.  This  brute  of  a  horse  is  sinking  in 
the  infernal  mud." 

"  Don't  jerk  at  him  !  I'll  change  the  horses  with 
you,  if  you  are  in  a  hurry  to  reach  the  plantation. 
Chiquita  can  take  you  more  quickly  than  he." 

"  But  you  ?  —  I  don't  understand  you.  What  will 
you  do  ?  " 

"  I  am  in  no  hurry." 

"This  horse  will  not  carry  you.  It  seems  to  me 
that  the  mud  is  growing  deeper." 


42  SILHOUETTES   OF  AMERICAN  LIFE 

"  I  understand  the  horses  and  mud  of  our  marshes 
better  than  you.  Come,  take  Chiquita.  Go  !  " 

Knight  alighted  and  mounted  the  mare,  with  a  per 
plexed  face.  He  had  begun  to  think  himself  in  actual 
danger,  and  was  mortified  to  find  that  Jose  made  so 
light  of  the  affair. 

"  Well,  good  day,  Monsieur  Tirar  !  "  he  said.  "  It 
is  very  kind  in  you  to  take  that  confounded  beast 
off  my  hands.  I'll  sell  him  to-morrow  if  I  can." 
He  nodded  to  Jose,  and  jerked  the  bridle  sharply. 
"  Come,  get  up ! "  he  said,  touching  Chiquita  with  a 
whip. 

Jose  leaped  at  him  like  a  cat.  "Damnation  !  Don't 
dare  to  touch  her  ! "  —  wrenching  the  whip  from  his 
hand,  and  raising  it  to  strike  him.  "Pardon,  Mon 
sieur,"  stiffening  himself,  "  my  horse  will  not  bear  a 
stroke.  Do  not  speak  to  her  and  she  will  carry  you 
safely."  His  hand  rested  a  moment  on  the  mare's 
neck.  He  muttered  something  to  her  in  Spanish,  and 
then  he  turned  his  back  that  he  might  not  see  her  go 
away. 

Mr.  Knight  reached  the  upper  marshes  in  about  two 
hours.  He  caught  sight  of  a  boat  going  down  the 
bayou,  and  recognizing  M.  de  Fourgon  and  some  other 
men  from  the  plantation  in  it,  rode  down  to  meet 
them. 

"  Thank  God,  you  are  safe,  Knight !  "  exclaimed  M. 
de  Fourgon.  "How's  that  ?  Surely  that  is  Chiquita 
you  are  riding !  Where  did  you  find  her  ?  " 

"That  queer  little  Mexican  insisted  that  I  should 
swap  horses  with  him.  My  nag  was  bogged,  and  —  " 

The  men  looked  at  each  other. 


TIRAR    Y  SOULT  43 

"  Where  did  you  leave  him  ?  " 

"  In  the  sea-marsh,  near  the  mouth  of  this  bayou. 
Why,  what  do  you  mean  ?  Is  he  in  danger?  Stop  !" 
he  shouted,  as  they  pulled  away  without  a  word. 
"  For  God's  sake,  let  me  go  with  you !  "  lie  left 
Chiquita  on  the  bank  and  leaped  into  the  boat,  taking 
an  oar. 

"You  do  not  mean  that  he  has  risked  his  life  for 
mine  ?  "  he  said. 

"It  looks  like  it,"  McCann  replied.  "And  yet  I 
could  have  sworn  that  he  disliked  you,  especially." 

"  The  old  Tirar  blood  has  not  perished  from  off  the 
earth,"  said  M.  de  Fourgon,  in  a  low  voice.  "  Give 
way  !  Together  now  !  I  fear  we  are  too  late." 

The  whole  marsh  was  under  water  before  they 
reached  it.  They  found  Jose's  body  submerged,  but 
wedged  in  the  crotch  of  a  pecan-tree,  into  which  he 
had  climbed.  It  fell  like  a  stone  into  the  boat. 

M.  de  Fourgon  laid  his  ear  to  his  heart,  pressed  his 
chest,  and  rose,  replying  by  a  shake  of  the  head  to 
their  looks.  He  took  up  his  oar  and  rowed  in  silence 
for  a  few  minutes. 

"  Pull,  gentlemen  !  "  he  said,  hoarsely.  "  The  night 
is  almost  upon  us.  We  will  take  him  to  my  house." 

But  Knight  did  not  believe  that  Jose  was  dead. 
He  stripped  him,  and  rubbed  and  chafed  the  sodden 
body  in  the  bottom  of  the  boat.  When  they  reached 
the  house,  and,  after  hours  of  vain  effort,  even  the 
physician  gave  up,  Knight  would  not  listen  to  him. 

"  He  shall  not  die,  I  tell  you  !  Why  should  his  life 
be  given  for  mine  ?  I  did  not  even  thank  him,  brute 
that  I  am  !  " 


44  SILHOUETTES   OF  AMERICAN  LIFE 

It  was  but  a  few  minutes  after  that,  that  he  looked 
up  from  his  rubbing,  his  face  growing  suddenly  white. 
The  doctor  put  his  hand  on  Tirar's  breast.  "  It  beats  !  " 
he  cried,  excitedly.  "  Stand  back  !  Air  —  brandy  !  " 

At  last  Jose  opened  his  eyes,  and  his  lips  moved. 
"  What  is  it,  my  dear  fellow  ?  "  they  all  cried,  crowd 
ing  around  him.  But  only  Knight  caught  the  whisper. 
He  stood  up,  an  amazed  comprehension  in  his  eyes. 

Drawing  M.  de  Fourgon  aside,  he  said  :  "  I  under 
stand  now  !  I  see  why  he  did  it !  "  and  hurried  away 
abruptly,  in  search  of  Miss  Venn. 

The  next  morning  M.  Tirar  was  carried  out  in  an 
easy-chair  to  the  gallery. 

He  was  the  hero  of  the  day.  The  whole  household, 
from  Madame  Dessaix  to  the  black  picaninnies,  buzzed 
about  him.  Miss  Venn  came  down  the  gallery,  beam 
ing,  flushed,  her  eyes  soft  with  tears.  She  motioned 
them  all  aside  and  sat  down  by  him,  stroking  his  cold 
hand  in  her  warm  ones. 

"  It  is  me  that  you  want,  Jose  ?  Not  these  others  ? 
Only  me  ?  " 

"If  you  can  spare  for  me  a  little  time,  Lucrezia  ?  " 
he  said,  humbly. 

She  did  not  reply  for  so  long  that  he  turned  and 
looked  into  her  face. 

"A  little  time?     All  of  the  time,"  she  whispered. 

Jose  started  forward.  His  chilled  heart  had  scarcely 
seemed  to  beat  since  he  was  taken  from  the  water. 
Xow  it  sent  the  blood  hot  through  his  body. 

"What  do  you  mean,  child?"  he  said,  sternly. 
"Think  what  you  say.  It  is  old  Jose.  Do  you 
mean  —  ?  " 


TIKAR   Y  SOULT  45 

"  Yes ;  and  I  always  meant  it,"  she  said,  quietly. 
"Why,  there  are  only  us  left  —  you  and  me.  And 
Chiquita,"  she  added,  laughing. 

%%•%•****%• 

A  week  later  Mrs.  Knight  received  a  letter  from 
Robert,  with  the  story  of  his  rescue.  She  cried  over 
it  a  good  deal. 

"Though  I  don't  see  why  he  thinks  it  such  an 
extraordinary  thing  in  that  little  man  to  do ! "  she 
reflected.  "Anybody  would  wish  to  save  Robert, 
even  a  wild  Mexican.  And,  why  upon  earth,  because 
his  life  was  in  danger,  he  should  have  written  to  offer 
it  to  Emma  Cramer,  beats  me !  She  hasn't  a  dollar." 

Through  the  window,  presently,  she  saw  the  girl 
crossing  the  fields,  with  quick,  light  steps. 

"  She's  heard  from  him  !  She's  coming  to  tell  me. 
Well,  I  did  think  Robert  would  have  married  a  woman 
of  means,  having  his  pick  and  choice  —  " 

But  the  widow's  heart  had  been  deeply  moved. 
"  Poor  Emma !  She's  been  as  faithful  as  a  dog  to 
Robert.  If  she  has  no  money,  she  will  save  his  as  an 
heiress  would  not  have  done.  Providence  orders  all 
things  right,"  she  thought,  relenting.  "If  that  girl 
has  not  put  on  her  best  white  dress  on  a  week-day ! 
How  glad  she  must  be  !  I'll  go  and  meet  her,  I  guess. 
She  has  no  mother  now,  to  kiss  her,  or  say  God  bless 
her,  poor  child ! "  And  she  hurried  to  the  gate. 


WALHALLA 


A  FEW  years  ago  a  young  English  artist,  named 
-£JL-  Reid,  who  was  travelling  through  this  country, 
stopped  for  a  day  or  two  at  Louisville,  having  found 
an  old  friend  there. 

He  urged  this  gentleman  to  go  with  him  into  the 
mountainous  region  of  Tennessee  and  North  Carolina. 

"  The  foliage,"  he  said,  "  will  be  worth  study  in  Sep 
tember;  and  besides,  I  have  an  errand  there  for  my 
brother.  He  is  a  house-decorator  in  New  York,  and 
when  he  was  in  the  Alps  last  summer,  he  was  told  that 
a  wood-carver,  whose  work  he  once  saw  in  Berne,  and 
fancied,  had  emigrated  to  America  two  or  three  years 
ago,  turned  farmer,  and  joined  a  small  German  colony 
in  these  mountains.  I  am  to  find  this  colony  if  I  can, 
and  if  there  is  any  workman  of  real  skill  in  it,  to  offer 
him  regular  work  and  good  wages  in  New  York.  My 
brother  is  in  immediate  need  of  a  panel-carver." 

"  He  could  have  imported  a  dozen  from  Berne." 

" Certainly,"  said  Eeid,  with  a  shrug ;  "but  Tom  has 

his  whims.     He  fancied  that  he  detected  a  delicacy,  a 

spirit  in  this  man's  work  —  an  undiscovered  genius,  in 

fact.     His  name,  unfortunately,  slipped  Tom's  mem- 

46 


WALIIALLA  47 

ory.     Where  do  you  suppose   the  fellow  is   hidden, 
Pomeroy  ?     Do  you  know  of  any  such  colony  ?  " 

"  No,  and  I  hardly  can  believe  that  there  are  any 
thrifty  Germans  among  those  impregnable  mountains. 
Why,  access  to  many  of  the  counties  is  only  to  be  had 
on  mules,  and  at  the  risk  of  your  neck.  Your  German 
must  have  a  market  for  his  work ;  he  would  find  none 
there." 

They  were  talking  in  the  breakfast  room  of  the 
hotel.  A  man  at  the  same  table  looked  up  and  nodded. 

"  Beg  pardon,  but  couldn't  help  overhearing.  Think 
the  place  you  want  is  in  South  Carolina.  Name  of 
Walhalla.  Village.  Queer  little  corner.  Oconee 
county." 

"  Oh,  thanks,  much ! "  said  Reid,  eying  him  specu- 
latively,  as  probably  a  new  specimen  of  the  American. 
"Any  Swiss  there,  do  you  know  ?  " 

"  That  I  can't  tell  you,  sir,"  said  the  stranger,  ex 
panding  suddenly  into  the  geniality  of  an  old  acquain 
tance.  "  They're  Germans,  I  take  it.  Shut  out  of  the 
world  by  the  mountains  as  completely  as  if  the  place 
was  a  'hall  of  the  dead,'  as  they  call  it.  There  it  is, 
with  German  houses  and  German  customs,  dropped 
down  right  into  the  midst  of  Carolina  snuff-rubbers, 
and  Georgian  clay-eaters.  I  found  the  village  five 
years  ago,  while  I  was  buying  up  skins  in  the  moun 
tains.  I'm  a  fur  dealer.  Cincinnati.  One  of  my 
cards,  gentlemen  ?  " 

*******^ 

To  Walhalla,  therefore,  Mr.  Reid  and  his  friend 
went.  They  tried  to  strike  a  bee-line  to  it,  through  a 
wilderness  of  mountain  ranges,  by  trails  known  only 


48  SILHOUETTES   OF  AMERICAN  LIFE 

to  the  trappers  5  taking  them  as  their  guides,  and 
sleeping  in  their  huts  at  night.  After  two  weeks  of 
climbing  among  the  clouds,  of  solitary  communion 
with  Nature,  of  unmitigated  dirt,  fried  pork,  and  fleas, 
they  came  in  sight  of  Walhalla. 

They  had  reached  Macon  county,  North  Carolina, 
where  the  Appalachian  range,  which  stretches  like  a 
vast  bulwark  along  the  eastern  coast  of  the  continent, 
closes  abruptly  in  walls  of  rock,  jutting  like  mighty 
promontories  into  the  plains  of  Georgia. 

Reid  and  Pomeroy  stopped  one  morning  on  one  of 
these  heights,  to  water  their  mules  at  a  spring,  from 
which  two  streams  bubbled  through  the  grass  and 
separated,  one  to  flow  into  the  Atlantic,  the  other  into 
the  Gulf  of  Mexico,  so  narrow  and  steep  was  the  ridge 
on  which  they  stood.  The  wind  blew  thin  and  cold  in 
their  faces ;  the  sun  shone  brightly  about  them ;  but 
below,  great  masses  of  cumulus  clouds  were  driven, 
ebbing  like  waves,  out  toward  the  horizon.  Far  down 
in  the  valley  a  rain-storm  was  raging.  It  occupied  but 
small  space,  and  looked  like  a  motionless  cataract  of 
gray  fog,  torn  at  times  by  yellow,  jagged  lightning. 

Not  far  from  the  spring  a  brown  mare  was  tethered, 
and  near  it  a  stout  young  man  in  blue  homespun  was 
lying,  stretched  lazily  out  on  the  dry,  ash-colored  moss, 
his  chin  in  his  palms,  watching  the  storm  in  the  val 
ley.  An  empty  sack  had  served  as  a  saddle  for  the 
mare  ;  slung  about  the  man's  waist  was  a  whiskey  flask 
and  a  horn.  He  was  evidently  a  farmer,  who  had 
come  np  into  the  mountains  to  salt  his  wild  cattle. 

Reid  took  note  of  the  clean  jacket,  the  steady  blue 
eyes,  the  red  rose  in  his  cap. 


WALIIALLA  49 

"Swiss/'  he  said  to  Pomeroy.  "Where  is  Walhalla, 
my  friend  ?  " 

The  man  touched  his  cap,  and  pointed  to  a  wisp  of 
smoke  at  the  base  of  the  mountain.  As  they  rode  on, 
his  dog  snuffed  curiously  at  their  horses'  heels,  but 
Hans  did  not  raise  his  head  to  look  after  them. 

"That  is  the  first  man  I  have  seen  in  America/' 
said  Eeid,  "who  took  time  to  look  at  the  world  he 
lived  in." 

When  they  were  gone,  Hans  lay  watching  the  cloud 
below  soften  from  a  metallic  black  mass  into  pearly 
haze ;  then  it  drifted  up  into  films  across  the  green 
hills.  On  the  nearer  plain  below,  he  could  now  see 
the  white-boiled  cotton-fields,  wet  and  shining  after 
the  shower;  threads  of  mist  full  of  rainbow  lights 
traced  out  the  water-courses;  damp,  earthy  scents 
came  up  to  the  height  from  the  soaked  forests.  After 
a  long  while  he  rose  leisurely,  his  eyes  filled  with  sat 
isfaction,  as  one  who  has  had  a  good  visit  in  the  home 
of  a  friend.  He  mounted  the  mare  and  rode  down  the 
trail ;  the  sun  shone  ruddily  on  the  peaks  above  him, 
but  there  wras  a  damp,  shivering  twilight  in  the  gorges. 
Both  seemed  holiday  weather  to  the  young  fellow ;  his 
mare  whinnied  when  he  patted  her  neck ;  the  dog  ran, 
barking  and  jumping  upon  him ;  it  was  a  conversation  ; 
that  had  been  going  on  for  years  among  old  friends. 

Mr.  Eeid  reached  Walhalla  just  before  sundown. 
As  his  mule  went  slowly  down  the  wide  street,  he 
looked  from  side  to  side  with  pleased  surprise. 

"It  is  a  street  out  of  some  German  village,"  he 
said.  "  I  have  not  seen  such  thrift  or  homely  com 
fort  in  this  country." 


50  SILHOUETTES   OF  AMERICAN  LIFE 

"  It  is  only  the  sudden  contrast  to  the  grandeur  and 
dirt  behind  us,"  said  Pomeroy.  "  If  you  miss  the 
repose  and  exaltation  of  the  lofty  heights  which  you 
talked  of,  you  will  find  scrubbed  floors  and  flea-less 
beds  a  solid  consolation." 

The  sleepy  hamlet  consisted  of  but  one  broad  street, 
lined  by  quaint  wooden  houses,  their  stoops  covered 
with  grape-vines  or  roses.  Back  of  these  houses 
stretched  trim  gardens,  gay  with  dahlias  and  yellow 
wall-flowers ;  back  of  these,  again,  were  the  farms. 
Along  the  middle  of  the  street,  at  intervals,  were 
shaded  wells,  public  scales,  a  platform  for  town  meet 
ings.  The  people  were  gathered  about  one  of  the  wells, 
in  their  old  German  fashion,  the  men  with  their  pipes, 
the  women  with  their  knitting. 

Reid  remained  in  Walhalla  for  two  or  three  days. 
He  found  that  there  were  several  Swiss  families  and 
that  many  of  the  men  had  been  wood-carvers  at  home. 
He  hit  upon  a  plan  to  accomplish  his  purpose.  He  gave 
a  subject  for  a  panel,  —  the  Flight  into  Egypt,  —  and 
announced  that  any  one  who  chose  might  undertake 
the  work ;  that  he  would  return  in  a  month  (he 
had  fo'ind  there  was  access  to  Columbia  by  railway 
through  the  valley),  and  would  then  buy  the  best 
panel  offered  at  a  fair  price,  and,  if  the  skill  shown  in 
the  work  satisfied  him,  would  send  the  carver  to  New 
York  free  of  expense,  and  insure  him  high  and  steady 
wages. 

On  the  day  that  he  left,  all  the  village  collected 
about  the  well  to  talk  the  matter  over.  Here  was  a 
strange  gust  from  the  outer  world  blowing  into  their 
dead  calm  !  Most  of  them  had  forgotten  that  there 


W ALII  ALL  A  51 

was  a  world  outside  of  Walhalla.  They  tilled  their 
farms  and  bartered  with  the  mountaineers.  Twice  a 
year  Schopf  went  to  Charlotte  for  goods  to  fill  his 
drowsy  shop.  New  York  ?  Eiches  ?  Fame  ?  The 
blast  of  a  strange  trumpet,  truly.  The  blood  began 
to  quicken.  Such  of  them  as  had  been  wood-carvers 
felt  their  fingers  itch  for  the  knife. 

"No  doubt  it  is  George  Heller  who  will  win  it," 
everybody  said.  "That  fellow  has  ambition  to  con 
quer  the  world.  Did  you  see  how  he  followed  the 
Englishmen  about  ?  He  could  talk  to  them  in  their 
own  fashion.  George  is  no  ordinary  man  !  " 

"If  Hans  had  but  his  wit  now  !  "  said  one,  nodding 
as  Hans  on  his  mare  came  down  the  street.  "Hans  is 
a  good  fellow.  But  he  will  never  make  a  stir  in  the 
world.  Now,  George's  fingers  used  to  be  as  nimble  as 
his  tongue." 

Heller's  tongue,  meanwhile,  was  wagging  nimbly 
enough  at  the  other  side  of  the  well.  He  was  a  little, 
wiry,  red-haired,  spectacled  fellow,  with  a  perpetual 
movement  and  sparkle  about  him,  as  if  his  thoughts 
were  flame. 

"  That's  the  right  sort  of  talk.  Fame  —  big  profit ! 
Why  should  wre  always  drag  behind  the  world  here  at 
Walhalla?  Plough  and  dig,  plough  and  dig!  The 
richest  man  in  New  York  left  Germany  a  butcher's 
son,  with  his  wallet  strapped  on  his  back ;  and  what 
is  a  butcher  to  an  artist  ?  Just  give  me  a  foothold  in 
New  York  and  I'll  show  you  what  a  baker's  son  can 
do,  let  Hans  Becht  laugh  as  he  chooses  ! "  For  Hans, 
who  had  come  down  to  the  well,  was  listening  with  a 
quizzical  twinkle  in  his  eye.  He  filled  his  pipe, 


52  SILHOUETTES  OF  AMERICAN  LIFE 

laughed,  sat  down  and  said  nothing.  Everybody  knew 
Hans  to  be  the  most  silent  man  in  Walhalla. 

The  pretty  girls  gathered  shyly  closer  to  Heller; 
and  the  boys  thrust  their  hands  in  their  pockets  and 
stared  admiringly  up  at  him.  Hans  was  their  especial 
friend,  but  what  a  stout,  common-place  creature  he 
was  beside  this  brilliant  fellow ! 

"  A  man  only  needs  a  foothold  in  this  world ! " 
George  said,  adjusting  his  spectacles  and  looking  ner 
vously  toward  a  bench  where  a  young  girl  sat  holding 
her  baby  brother.  The  child  was  a  solid  lump  of  flesh, 
but  she  looked  down  at  him  with  the  tenderest  eyes 
in  the  world.  The  sight  of  her  drove  the  blood  through 
Heller's  veins  almost  as  hotly  as  the  smell  of  a  glass 
of  liquor  would  do.  "Oh,  if  I  win,  I'll  take  a  wife 
from  Walhalla ! "  he  cried,  laughing  excitedly,  looking 
at  her  and  not  caring  that  the  whole  village  saw  his 
look.  "  I'll  come  back  for  the  girl  I  love  ! "  He  fan 
cied  that  the  shy  eyes  had  caught  the  fire  from  his 
own  and  answered  with  a  sudden  flash. 

Hans  thought  so,  too;  his  pipe  went  out  in  his 
mouth.  When  she  rose  to  go  home,  he  took  the  heavy 
boy  out  of  her  arms,  and  walked  beside  her.  Heller's 
shrill  voice  sounded  behind  them  like  a  vehement  fife. 

"Success  .  .  .  dollars  .  .  .  dollars!" 

Hans  looked  anxiously  down  into  her  face. 

"They  are  good  things,"  she  said;  "very  good 
things." 

Hans's  tongue  was  tied  as  usual.  He  dropped  Phil 
in  the  cradle  in  the  kitchen,  and  then  came  out  and 
led  Christine  down  to  the  garden  of  his  own  house. 

What  was  New  York  —  money,  to  home  ?     Surely 


WALHALLA  53 

she  must  see  that !  He  led  her  slowly  past  the  well- 
built  barn  and  piggeries,  past  the  bee-hives  hidden 
behind  the  cherry -trees,  and  seated  her  on  the  porch. 
He  thought  these  things  would  speak  for  him.  Hans 
clung  as  closely  to  his  home  as  Phil  yonder  to  his 
mother's  breast.  But  Christine  looked  sullen. 

Hans  said  nothing. 

"  A  man  should  not  be  satisfied  with  a  kitchen  gar 
den,"  she  said  sharply. 

They  sat  on  the  porch  steps.  The  night  air  was 
warm  and  pure,  the  moon  hung  low  over  the  rice  fields 
to  the  left,  throwing  fantastic  shadows  that  chased 
each  other  like  noiseless  ghosts  as  the  wind  swayed 
the  grain.  To  the  right,  beyond  the  valley,  the  moun 
tains  pierced  the  sky.  They  were  all  so  friendly,  but 
dumb  —  dumb  as  himself.  If  they  could  only  speak 
and  say  of  how  little  account  money  was,  after  all ! 
It  seemed  to  Hans  as  if  they  were  always  just  going 
to  speak ! 

But  Christine  did  not  look  at  sky,  or  mountains,  or 
sleeping  valley.  She  looked  at  the  gravel  at  her  feet, 
and  gave  it  a  little  kick. 

"  iSTo  doubt  George  Heller  will  succeed.  I  hope  he 
will,  too  !  "  she  said  vehemently.  "  If  a  man  has  the 
real  stuff  in  him  let  him  show  it  to  the  world !  I'll 
go  home  now,  Mr.  Becht." 

That  evening  Haiis's  violin  was  silent.  He  used  to 
play  until  late  in  the  night ;  but  he  was  sharpening 
his  long  unused  knives,  with  a  pale  face.  He,  too, 
Avas  beginning  a  Flight  into  Egypt. 

During  the  next  two  weeks  a  tremendous  whittling 
went  on  in  Walhalla.  Some  old  fellows,  who  had 


54  SILHOUETTES   OF  AMERICAN  LIFE 

never  cut  anything  but  paper-knives  and  match-boxes, 
were  fired  with  the  universal  frenzy.  Why  should 
not  Stein,  the  cobbler,  or  Fritz,  the  butcher,  chip  his 
way  to  wealth,  fame,  and  New  York  ?  There  is  not 
a  butcher  or  cobbler  of  us  all  who  does  not  secretly 
believe  himself  a  genius  equal  to  the  best  —  barred 
down  by  circumstance.  George  Heller  kept  his  work 
secret,  but  he  was  mightily  stirred  by  it  in  soul  and 
body.  Twice,  in  a  rage,  he  broke  the  panel  into  bits, 
and  came  out  pale  and  covered  with  perspiration ;  he 
walked  about  muttering  to  himself  like  one  in  a 
dream  ;  he  went  to  Godfrey  Stein's  inn  and  drank 
wine  and  brandy,  and  then  more  brandy,  and  forgot 
to  pay.  Genius  is  apt  to  leave  the  lesser  virtues  in 
the  lurch.  He  kicked  the  dogs  out  of  the  way,  cursed 
the  children,  and  was  insolent  to  his  old  father  who 
still  fed  and  clothed  him. 

"He's  no  better  than  a  wolf's  whelp!"  said  Stein. 
"  But  he's  got  the  true  artist  soul.  He'll  win ! " 
Now  if  anybody  knew  the  world,  it  was  Godfrey 
Stein. 

Nobody  thought  Hans  Becht  would  win  but  his  old 
mother.  She  was  sure  of  it.  She  sat  beside  him 
with  her  knitting,  talking  all  the  time.  Why  did  he 
not  give  himself  more  time  ?  The  rice-field  must  be 
flooded  ?  Let  the  rice  go  this  year.  He  spent  three 
hours  in  the  cotton  this  morning.  And  what  with  fod 
dering  the  stock,  and  rubbing  down  even  the  pigs  — . 
What  were  cotton  and  pigs  to  this  chance  ?  It  would 
come  but  once  a  life-time. 

Meanwhile,  Hans,  when  free  from  pigs  and  rice 
and  cotton,  sat  by  the  window  and  cut,  cut,  and 


WALHALLA  5<J 

whistled  softly.  The  door  of  the  kitchen  stood  open, 
and  the  chickens  came  picking  their  way  on  to  the 
white  floor.  A  swift  stream  of  water  ran  through 
the  millet  field  and  across  the  garden,  shining  in  the 
sun.  The  red  rhododendrons  nodded  over  it,  and 
the  rowan  bushes,  scarlet  with  berries.  Beyond  the 
millet  field,  there  was  a  rampart  of  rolling  hills,  bronzed 
with  the  early  frost;  but  here  blazed  the  crimson 
leaves  of  the  shonieho,  and  there  a  cucumber  tree 
thrust  its  open  golden  fruit,  studded  with  scarlet 
seeds,  through  the  dull  back-ground.  Beyond  this 
rising  ground  were  the  peaks,  indistinct  as  gray 
shadows,  holding  up  the  sky. 

Sometimes  Mother  Becht  caught  Hans  with  his 
knife  idle,  looking  at  these  far  off  heights,  or  at  the 
minnows  glancing  through  the  brook  near  at  hand. 
There  was  a  great  pleasure  in  his  eyes. 

"You  are  a  fool  to  throw  away  your  time,"  she 
cried.  "Can  you  cut  that  red  weed  or  the  sky  into 
your  wood  ?  You  could  not  even  paint  them." 

"  God  forbid  that  anybody  should  try  ! "  thought 
Hans. 

"Stick  to  your  work!  work  counts.  The  things 
that  count  in  the  world  are  those  which  push  you  up 
among  your  neighbors." 

Hans  began  to  cut  a  tip  to  Joseph's  nose. 

"The  things  which  count  in  the  world  — "  he 
queried  to  himself.  He  did  his  thinking  very  slowly. 
His  blind  father  sat  outside  in  the  sun  ;  he  came  in 
every  hour  or  two  to  hear  how  the  work  was  going  on, 
and  then  went  to  Schopf  s  shop  to  report.  His  wife  told 
him  that  there  was  no  doubt  that  Hans  would  succeed. 


56  SILHOUETTES  OF  AMERICAN  LIFE 

"Joseph  is  good,  and  Mary  is  very  fine,"  she  said. 
"  But  the  mule  is  incomparable.  If  you  could  only 
see  the  mule  !  When  Hans  goes  to  New  York,  do 
you  think  he  will  take  us  at  once,  or  send  for  us  in 
the  spring  ?  I  think  it  would  be  safer  to  make  the 
journey  in  the  spring.  But  it  will  not  matter  to  pas 
sengers  in  palace  cars  —  no  emigrant  train  for  us, 
then,  father  !  He  will  be  taking  three  of  us  —  " 

"  Eh  ?     How's  that  ?     Three  ?  " 

"Christine,"  she  said,  with  a  significant  chuckle. 
"Oh,  she'll  be  glad  enough  to  take  our  Hans,  then! 
She's  had  to  work  her  fingers  to  the  bone.  She  knows 
the  weight  of  a  full  purse." 

"Hans  is  welcome  to  bring  her  home  whether  he 
wins  or  not,"  said  Father  Becht.  "He  earns  the  loaf, 
and  it's  big  enough  for  four.  There's  not  a  sweeter 
voice  in  Walhalla  than  Christy  Vogel's." 

"  She's  well  enough,"  said  Mrs.  Becht,  cautiously. 
"Vogel's  tobacco  brought  half  a  cent  in  the  pound 
more  than  ours,  and  it  was  Christine's  raising  and 
drying.  Her  beer's  fair,  too.  I've  tasted  it."  She 
went  in  and  talked  to  Hans.  "  Only  win,  and  Chris 
tine  will  marry  you.  She'll  follow  the  full  purse." 

"  She'll  follow  the  man  she  loves,  and  that  is  not 
I,"  thought  Hans,  and  he  stopped  whistling.  His 
mother's  voice  sounded  on,  click-click. 

"When  we  are  rich  —  when  we  are  in  the  city  — 
when  we  drive  in  a  carriage  —  " 

"  She,  too  ? "  he  considered,  looking  out  thought 
fully  about  him  at  the  fat  farm-lands,  the  pleasant 
house,  the  cheery  fire,  and  then  away  to  the  scarlet 
rowan  burning  in  the  brown  undergrowth,  and  the 
misty,  heaven-reaching  heights. 


WALIIALLA  57 

Even  his  mother  counted  these  things  as  nothing 
beside  fame,  New  York,  money.  Was  he  then  mad 
or  a  fool ? 

Nobody  thought  he  would  win.  Yet,  everybody 
stopped  to  look  in.  the  window,  with  "  good-luck, 
Hans!" 

"  See  what  a  favorite  you  are,  my  lad,"  said  his 
mother.  "  There's  not  a  man  or  a  woman  in  Walhalla 
to  whom  you  have  not  done  a  kindness.  Do  you  think 
the  Lord  does  not  know  you  deserve  success  ?  If  He 
does  not  give  you  the  prize  instead  of  that  drunken 
Heller,  there's  no  justice  in  heaven ! " 

At  last  the  Englishman  returned.  The  decision  was 
to  be  made  that  night.  Hans  had  finished  his  panel 
that  very  day.  He  did  not  know  whether  it  was  bad 
or  good.  He  had  cut  away  at  it  as  faithfully  as  he  had 
rubbed  down  his  pigs.  He  wrapped  it  up  that  even 
ing  and  went  down  to  the  inn,  stopping  at  Vogel's  on 
the  way.  The  old  people  were  at  the  well;  Chris 
tine  had  cooked  the  supper,  milked  the  cows,  and  now 
she  was  up  in  her  chamber  singing  little  Phil  to  sleep. 

Her  voice  came  down  to  Hans  below  full  of  passion 
and  sadness. 

"Who  is  it  she  loves  in  that  way?"  he  wondered. 
He  stood  in  the  path  of  the  little  yard,  listening. 
Heller,  coming  across  the  street,  eyed  the  square-jawed, 
heavy  figure.  What  an  awkward  figure  it  was,  to  be 
sure.  How  the  linen  clothes  bagged  about  it !  He 
glanced  down  at  his  own  natty  little  legs  and  shining 
boots,  and  tossed  his  head  jerkily.  He  carried  his 
panel  wrapped  in  cloth,  and  came  in,  banging  the  gate 
after  him. 


58  SILHOUETTES   OF  AMERICAN  LIFE 

"Is  that  you,  Becht  ?  Been  whittling,  too?"  he 
said,  with  an  insolent  chuckle. 

Hans  looked  at  him  steadfastly,  not  hearing  a  word 
that  he  said.  AVas  it  Heller  that  she  loved  ?  If  he 
were  sure  of  it,  he  would  not  speak  a  word  for  himself. 
No  matter  what  became  of  him,  if  she  were  content. 
He  was  hurt  to  the  core. 

Christine  came  down.  She  wore  some  stuff  of  pale 
blue,  and  had  fastened  a  bunch  of  wild  roses  in  her 
bosom.  She  was  so  silent  and  cold  with  both  the 
young  men  that  one  could  hardly  believe  that  it  was 
the  woman  who  had  sung  with  such  passionate  longing 
over  the  child. 

"]STow  you  shall  see  my  panel!"  cried  Heller,  ner 
vously  adjusting  his  spectacles.  He  set  it  011  the 
bench  and  dragged  off  the  cloth. 

"Ah-h!"  cried  Christine,  clasping  her  hands;  then 
she  turned  anxiously  to  Hans. 

Hans  was  not  ready  with  his  words.  His  eyes  filled 
with  tears.  He  laid  his  hand  on  Heller's  shoulder 
with  hearty  good-will.  The  work  gave  him  keen 
pleasure.  In  the  face  of  the  mother  bending  over  the 
child  there  was  that  inscrutable  meaning  which  he 
found  in  the  quiet  valleys,  the  far  heights.  But 
Heller,  oddly,  did  not  seem  to  see  it. 

"Yes,  very  nice  bits  of  chipping  there  !  "  pulling  at 
his  red  moustache.  "  I  shall  ask  fifty  dollars  for 
that." 

Christine  turned  her  searching  eyes  on  him. 

"Yes,  fifty,"  he  repeated,  feeling  that  he  had  im 
pressed  her. 

Hans,  too,  looked  at  him  wondering.     How  could 


WALHALLA  59 

this  paltry  sot  compel  the  secret  into  his  work,  which 
to  him  was  but  a  holy  dream  ?  Christine  was  watch 
ing  him  anxiously. 

"  Is  that  your  panel  ?  "  she  said  at  last. 

Hans  nodded,  hesitated  a  moment,  and  then  broke 
the  thin  bit  of  wood  in  two  and  filing  it  into  the  road. 

"  It  was  nothing  but  a  fairly  cut  mule/'  he  said. 

Heller  laughed  loud. 

"  Well,  time  to  be  off.  Wish  me  good  luck,  Chris 
tine  ! " 

She  smiled,  and  walked  with  him  to  the  gate.  Hans 
followed,  but  she  did  not  once  look  at  Hans.  As  she 
opened  the  gate,  Heller  laid  his  hand  quickly  on  hers ; 
a  rose  fell  from  her  dress  ;  he  caught  it  and  pressed  it 
to  his  lips.  His  breath  was  rank  with  liquor.  Hans 
thrust  him  back  and  strode  between  them. 

"  This  must  end.  Christine,  you  must  choose  be 
tween  this  man  and  me." 

"I  can  easily  do  that,"  she  said,  quickly. 

Heller  laughed.  Hans  gulped  down  a  lump  in  his 
throat. 

"  Not  to-night,"  he  said. 

By  to-morrow,  no  doubt,  Heller  would  be  known  as 
successful,  the  man  whose  purse  would  always  be  full. 
Christine  must  know  precisely  what  she  was  choosing. 
It  was  like  Hans  to  think  of  these  things.  If,  in 
spite  of  it  all,  she  came  to  him  — 

"There  is  another  rose  on  your  breast.  Send  it 
to-morrow  to  the  man  you  love,"  he  said. 

"I  will."  She  did  not  look  at  him.  She  was  as 
pale  as  himself.  He  went  down  the  street,  leaving 
her  with  Heller. 


GO  SILHOUETTES   OF  AMERICAN  LIFE 

Two  hours  afterward  he  went  to  the  inn  where  Reid 
was,  and  sat  on  a  bench  at  the  door.  Half  the  village 
was  inside  waiting  to  hear  the  decision.  His  heart 
beat  rebelliously  against  his  breast.  What  if,  after 
all,  there  had  been  great  hidden  merit  in  his  panel  ? 
It  was  only  natural  that  Christine  should  be  won 
by  clap-trap  of  success  and  money  —  she  was  only  a 
woman.  "  But  no,"  he  answered  himself,  "  what  I 
am  —  I  am.  I  want  no  varnish  of  praise  or  dollars." 

Out  came  the  crowd. 

"  I  knew  it !  "  "  The  most  worthless  lout  in  Wal- 
halla  !  "  "  A  drunkard  for  luck  !  "  "  He  goes  to  New 
York  next  week." 

"  Then  he  must  come  back  for  his  wife,"  said  Stein. 
"  He  told  me  to-night  he  was  betrothed  to  Christy." 

Hans  stood  up,  and  nodded  good  night  to  them  as 
he  pushed  through  the  crowd.  He  did  not  go  home. 
A  damp  breeze  blew  up  the  valley.  Down  yonder 
were  the  far-reaching  meadows,  the  lapping  streams, 
the  great  friendly  trees.  He  went  to  them  as  a  child 
goes  to  its  mother  in  trouble. 

=*#=**#:*## 

About  six  miles  from  Walhalla  lies  the  trunk  line 
of  the  Atlanta  and  Richmond  railroad.  At  ten  o'clock 
that  evening,  the  moon  being  at  the  full,  the  engineer 
of  the  express  train,  going  north,  saw  a  man  at  a  turn 
of  the  road  signalling  him  vehemently  to  stop.  Now,  a 
wray  train  in  that  leisurely  region  will  pull  up  for  any 
signal.  But  this  engineer  looked  out  in  calm  contempt. 

"  Reckon  he  don't  know  the  express ! "  he  said. 
A  little  child  in  the  cars  saw  the  man  gesticulating 
wildly  and  laughed  at  him  through  the  open  window. 


WALIIALLA  61 

The  man  disappeared  over  the  brow  of  the  hill. 
The  road  made  a  long  circuit  around  its  base.  When 
the  engine  came  around  this  bend,  the  engineer,  Hurst, 
saw  on  the  track  in  front  a  prison  hand-car  used  to 
transport  the  convict  laborers  from  one  division  to 
another.  The  convicts  had  been  taken  to  the  stockade 
for  the  night,  and  the  driver  of  the  car  was  inside  of 
it,  dead  drunk. 

Hurst  had  been  twenty  years  in  his  business ;  he 
understood  the  condition  of  affairs  at  a  glance.  He 
knew  it  meant  death  to  all  those  people  in  the  crowded 
cars  behind  him,  to  him  first  of  all.  He  whistled 
down  brakes,  but  he  knew  that  it  was  of  no  use.  The 
brakes  were  of  the  old  kind,  and  before  the  train 
could  be  slackened  it  would  be  upon  the  solid  mass  in 
front. 

"  We're  done  for,  Zack,"  he  said  to  the  fireman.  He 
did  not  think  of  jumping  off  his  engine.  It  is  notice 
able  how  few  common-place  men  try  to  shirk  death 
when  in  the  discharge  of  duty. 

The  brakes  were  of  no  use.  The  engine  swept  on, 
hissing,  shrieking. 

Suddenly  Hurst  saw  that  the  car  was  backing !  — 
creeping  like  a  snail ;  but  assuredly,  backing. 

"  Y-ha ! "  yelled  Zack. 

Hurst  saw  the  man  who  had  warned  him  standing 
on  the  platform  of  the  car,  working  it.  Now,  it  re 
quired  at  least  four  men  to  work  that  car. 

In  another  minute  the  engine  would  be  upon  him. 

"  God  !  You'll  be  killed !  "  shouted  Hurst.  The 
terrible  hardihood  of  the  man  stunned  him  into  for 
getting  that  anybody  else  was  in  danger.  At  that 


62  SILHOUETTES   OF  AMERICAN  LIFE 

instant  from  the  train  came  a  frightful  shriek  — 
women's  voices.  The  passengers  for  the  first  time 
saw  their  danger. 

It  was  but  a  point  of  time,  yet  it  seemed  like  an 
hour.  The  train  did  not  abate  its  speed.  The  man, 
a  short  fellow  of  powerful  build,  threw  the  strength 
of  a  giant  into  his  straining  muscles,  his  white  face 
with  its  distended  eyes  was  close  in  front  in  the  red 
glare  of  the  engine. 

Hurst  shut  his  eyes.  He  muttered  something  about 
Joe  —  Joe  was  his  little  boy. 

The  train  jarred  with  a  long  scrunching  rasp,  and 
—  stopped.  They  were  saved. 

"Great  God!"  prayed  Hurst.  "Tight  squeak  for 
your  life,  Zack,"  he  said  aloud,  wetting  his  lips  with 
his  tongue. 

The  people  poured  out  of  the  train.  They  went  up 
to  the  car,  some  laughing,  some  swearing.  But  every 
man  there  felt  as  if  Death  had  taken  his  soul  into  his 
hold  for  a  moment,  and  then  let  it  go. 

Three  stout  men  tried  to  move  the  car.  They  could 
not  do  it. 

"Who  is  that  fellow?" 

"  A  workman  on  the  road  ?  " 

"No,"  said  Hurst. 

"  Where  is  he  ?  "  asked  several. 

For  he  had  vanished  as  if  the  earth  had  swallowed 
him  up. 

"He  was  a  youngish,  light-complexioned  fellow," 
said  Zack.  "  Most  likely  a  Deutcher  from  Wal- 
halla." 

"Whoever  he  may  be,  he  saved  our  lives,"  said  a 


WALIIALLA  63 

director  of  the  road.  "  I  never  saw  such  desperate 
courage.  I  vote  for  a  testimonial." 

The  American  soul  exults  in  testimonials,  and  the 
Southerner  is  free  with  his  money.  There  happened, 
too,  to  be  a  delegation  of  New  York  merchants  on 
board,  who  valued  their  lives  at  a  pretty  figure. 
More  than  all,  there  was  a  widow  from  California,  the 
owner  of  millions  and  of  the  pretty  boy  who  had 
looked  out  of  the  window.  "  He  saved  my  baby,"  she 
said  with  a  sob,  as  she  took  the  paper. 

The  testimonial  grew  suddenly  into  a  sum  which 
made  Hurst  wink  with  amazement  when  he  heard  of 
it.  "  That  fellow  will  be  king  in  Walhalla,"  he  said. 

It  was  near  morning  when  Hans  came  home.  He 
went  to  his  room,  said  his  prayers,  and  slept  heavily. 
The  next  morning  the  village  was  on  fire  with  excite 
ment.  The  inn  was  full  of  passengers  from  the  train  ; 
the  story  was  in  everybody's  mouth.  The  director  of 
the  road  had  driven  over  from  the  station.  When 
Hans  went  down  to  the  pasture  that  morning  he  saw 
a  placard  stating  the  facts  and  the  sum  subscribed, 
and  requesting  the  claimant  to  present  himself  at  the 
station  that  evening  for  identification  by  Hurst. 

Hans  went  on  to  the  pasture.  When  he  came  back 
and  was  at  work  in  the  garden,  he  could  hear  through 
the  paling  the  people  talking  as  they  went  by. 

"  He  will  be  the  richest  man  in  Walhalla." 

"  The  director  says  the  company  will  give  him  a 
situation  for  life.  So  they  ought !  " 

Nothing  else  was  talked  of.  The  contests  of  yes 
terday  and  all  the  Flights  into  Egypt  were  forgotten. 

"  Ah,  that  fellow  is  lucky,  whoever  he  is  !  "  he  heard 


64  SILHOUETTES   OF  AMERICAN  LIFE 

his  mother  say  on  the  sidewalk.  "  And  there's  Heller  ! 
Some  people  are  born  to  luck ! "  looking  over  the  palings 
with  bitter  disappointment  at  Hans,  digging  potatoes. 

But  blind  Father  Becht  listened  in  silence.  He 
knew  but  one  man  in  the  world  brave  enough  for  such 
a  deed.  "  I  give  that  lad  my  blessing ! "  he  said, 
striking  his  cane  on  the  ground.  He,  too,  turned 
toward  Hans,  digging  potatoes. 

"  Heller  is  packing  to  be  off  to  New  York,"  some 
body  said.  "  They  say  Vogel's  pretty  daughter  is  to 
follow  in  the  spring." 

Hans  stuck  his  spade  into  the  ground  and  went  to 
his  mother.  "  I  am  going  to  salt  the  cattle  on  the 
north  mountain,"  he  said. 

"Very  well.  He  does  not  even  care  to  know  who 
this  brave  lad  is,"  she  said  to  his  father.  "He's  a 
good  boy,  but  dull  —  dull.  They  tell  me  there  is  a 
woman  from  California  at  the  inn.  She  says  she 
must  see  the  man  who  saved  her  boy's  life.  She  is 
rich  and  has  her  whims,  no  doubt." 

Night  came,  but  the  man  had  not  presented  himself. 
The  next  day  the  director,  who  was  of  a  generous, 
impatient  temper,  offered  a  reward  to  anybody  who 
could  make  him  known.  It  was  certain  he  had  told 
nobody  what  he  had  done,  or  they  now  would  have 
come  forward  for  the  reward.  The  excitement  grew 
with  every  hour.  Hans  returned  late  in  the  next  day. 
He  went  to  his  spade  and  began  to  dig  the  rest  of 
the  potatoes.  His  mother  followed. 

"  Well,"  she  exclaimed,  "he  is  not  found  !  The  story 
is  gone  by  telegraph  to  all  parts  of  the  country.  Here 
are  fame  and  riches  waiting  for  him.  Some  people 


W  ALII  ALL  A  65 

certainly  are  born  on  lucky  Sundays.  There  is  Heller, 
the  drunken  beast,  gone  off  to  New  York.  And  you 
must  dig  potatoes  !  There's  no  justice  in  heaven  !  " 

She  clicked  away,  knitting  as  she  went. 

Now  I  may  as  well  say  here  that  although  this  hap 
pened  years  ago,  the  missing  man  is  not  yet  found. 
He  is  the  mystery  and  pride  of  all  that  region.  The 
director  put  the  money  out  at  compound  interest,  but 
it  is  yet  unclaimed. 

Concerning  Hans,  however,  who  digs  his  potatoes  in 
the  same  patch,  we  have  something  more  to  tell. 
When  he  had  finished  digging  that  morning  he  went 
into  the  house.  The  stout  fellow  had  lost  his  ruddy 
color,  as  though  he  had  lately  gone  through  some  heavy 
strain  of  body  or  soul.  He  sat  on  the  kitchen  steps 
and  played  a  soft  air  on  his  violin.  The  earth  he  had 
been  digging  lay  in  moist,  black  heaps.  He  liked  the 
smell  of  it.  How  like  a  whispering  voice  was  the  gurgle 
of  the  stream  through  the  roots  of  the  sumachs  !  Yon 
der  was  a  Peruvian  tree,  raising  its  trunk  and  branches 
in  blood-red  leaves  against  the  still  air;  far  beyond 
were  the  solemn  heights.  He  had  just  come  from 
there.  He  knew  how  quiet  it  was  yonder  near  the 
sky  —  how  friendly.  All  these  things  came,  as  he 
played,  into  the  music  and  spoke  through  it,  and  a 
great  stillness  and  peace  shone  in  his  eyes. 

And  at  that  moment  —  he  never  forgot  it  in  all  his 
life  —  a  woman's  hand  brushed  his  cheek,  and  a  red 
rose  came  before  his  eyes. 

"  You  did  not  come  for  the  rose,  so  I  brought  it  to 
you,"  said  Christine. 

Later  in  the  morning  they  went  to  the  well  together ; 


66  SILHOUETTES   OF  AMERICAN  LIFE 

all  tlieir  neighbors  were  there,  and  it  was  soon  known 
they  were  betrothed.  Everybody  took  Hans  by  the 
hand.  Ho  had  never  guessed  he  had  so  many  friends. 
"There  is  no  better  fellow  in  the  world,"  they  said  to 
one  another.  "  He  deserves  Inek." 

"  That  is  why  I  was  impatient  with  you,"  whispered 
Christine.  "  I  could  not  bear  to  see  that  miserable 
Heller  carry  away  all  the  praise  and  the  money." 

"These  are  not  the  things  in  the  world  that  count," 
said  Hans,  quietly. 

Presently  an  open  carriage  drove  through  the  street. 

"  That  is  the  lady  who  was  in  the  train,"  the  people 
whispered.  "  That  is  her  boy.  She  says  she  will  not 
go  until  she  finds  the  man  who  saved  them." 

The  lady,  smiling,  held  her  baby  up  that  it  might 
see  the  women.  She  was  greatly  amused  and  interested 
by  the  quaint  German  village.  When  the  boy  caught 
sight  of  Hans  he  laughed  and  held  out  his  hands.  The 
mother  nodded  kindly.  "The  brave  man  who  saved 
us  also  wore  a  •workman's  dress,  I  am  told,"  she  said. 
"My  boy  saw  him  as  he  passed." 

Hans  took  the  child  in  his  arms  for  a  moment,  and 
kissed  him.  When  he  gave  him  back  to  his  mother  his 
eyes  were  full  of  tears.  Then  the  carriage  drove  on. 

He  stood  at  the  door  of  the  home  that  was  so  dear 
to  him.  Christine  held  his  hand,  the  sun  shone  cheer 
fully  about  him. 

"To  think,"  said  his  mother,  "that  we  are  not  to 
know  who  that  brave  fellow  is  ! " 

His  blind  father  took  Hans's  other  hand  softly  in  his. 

"  God  knows,"  he  said. 

But  no  one  heard  him. 


THE   DOCTOR'S  WIFE 


DTL  NOYES  married,  I  think,  somewhere  about 
'08  or  '9.  There  is  very  little  to  be  said  about 
his  wife.  Mrs.  Sarah  Fanning,  indeed,  gave  a  decisive 
verdict  upon  her  at  first  sight.  "She  is  one  of  the 
rank  and  file  of  Humanity,"  said  she;  "one  of  the 
weightless  molecules  that  go  to  make  up  the  mass." 
Mrs.  Fanning  was  that  brilliant  little  woman  from 
Andover,  Massachusetts,  who  essayed  to  take  the  well- 
known  Mrs.  Hush's  place  in  Philadelphia  that  winter. 
She  used  to  give  weekly  reunions  —  without  supper; 
she  cannot  understand,  even  now,  why  she  could  not 
"  form  a  literary  nucleus  "  there. 

Nobody  contradicted  her  verdict ;  she  always  claimed 
Humanity  as  her  own  pre-empted  property ;  and  be 
sides,  there  really  was  so  little  to  say  about  the  Doctor's 
wife !  Mrs.  Fanning  remarked  that  "  an  American 
woman,  if  no  other,  ought  to  have  some  salient  points, 
good  or  bad,  to  justify  her  right  to  live,  and  this 
woman  was  an  American  of  the  Americans,  descended 
on  one  side  from  a  colonial  Maryland  family,  and  on 
the  other,  of  Pennsylvania  Quaker  stock,  a  race  of 
reformers,  who  lived  only  for  great  ideas.  But  there 

67 


68  SILHOUETTES   OF  AMERICAN  LIFE 

was  absolutely  nothing  in  the  creature  —  nothing!  It 
was  inexplicable,  by  all  the  rules  of  race  !  "  The  little 
lady's  specialty,  by  the  bye,  was  "race"  and  "strains 
of  blood."  She  could  lay  her  finger  on  the  very  great 
grandfather  from  whom  you  inherited  your  long  upper- 
lip  or  gluttonous  propensities,  and  reason  for  you,  out 
of  these  inheritances,  such  sequences  of  fatalism  that 
your  Christianity  tottered  quite  to  its  foundations. 

Now  there  had  been  no  salient  points  about  the 
Doctor's  wife  when  she  was  a  fat  baby,  or  a  girl  at 
school.  Dode  Mear  was  daily  set  down  as  a  dunce  in 
every  class  in  Madame  Latouche's  private  school,  from 
spelling  up  to  International  Law,  and  daily  took  up 
her  book  with  a  cheerful  "It  really  is  too  bad  in  mo," 
and  went  out  in  the  evening  with  fresh  zeal  to  skate 
and  run  races  with  the  boys, — her  cousins.  If  she 
had  been  one  of  the  delicate  "Lilys"  and  "Violets" 
whom  the  other  girls  set  apart  to  adore,  her  lack  of 
brains  could  have  been  overlooked ;  but  she  was  a 
short,  thickset  little  body,  with  a  shock  of  red  hair 
tied  back  from  a  freckled  face  which  was  lighted  by 
laughing  blue  eyes,  —  eyes  in  which  there  was  an  un 
deniable  cast.  She  never,  however,  gave  a  hint  of  her 
opinion  of  herself,  and  always  seemed  to  be  in  high 
good  humor  with  her  lot  in  life,  stupidity  and  squint 
included.  A  certain  indefinable  something  about  the 
girl  would  prevent  any  one  from  hinting  a  disagreeable 
truth  to  her.  The  same  impalpable  reserve  or  old- 
fashioned  courtesy  in  her,  too,  made  the  boys  who 
skated  and  raced  with  her  treat  her  with  a  respect 
which  they  did  not  show  to  the  Lilys  and  Violets. 
Her  condition  on  graduation-day  would  have  been 


THE  DOCTOR'S    WIFE  69 

pitiable  if  her  placid  good  humor  had  not  made  it 
exasperating.  One  of  the  class  was  going  to  sail  as 
Missionary  to  Africa :  we  all  made  a  paragon  and 
martyr  of  her;  we  all  looked  forward  with  hysteric 
enthusiasm  to  speedily  becoming  famous  authors,  lead 
ers  in  society,  or  at  least,  wives  and  mothers.  Clergy 
men  and  faculty  spoke  and  prayed  at  us,  the  very  air 
kindled  with  hope  and  fervor ;  and  there  sat  that 
plump  little  dunce  at  the  foot  of  the  bench,  smelling 
a  bunch  of  the  red  Burgundy  roses,  of  which  she  was 
so  fond,  quite  contented  to  be  nobody  now  and  in  the 
future ! 

Here  she  was  again,  Dr.  Noyes's  wife,  shapeless  and 
freckled  and  bright-eyed  as  ever :  but  the  ugly  hair 
was  always  delicately  coiffured,  and  her  simple  dress 
a  marvel  of  exquisite  art.  She  did  not  care  in  the 
least  that  everybody  believed  that  she  had  sold  herself 
for  an  establishment.  Why  else  should  a  girl  of  her 
age  marry  a  cynical,  soured  widower  of  fifty,  with  a 
half  dozen  hobble-de-hoys  of  sons  ? 

"  Dr.  Noyes,"  Mrs.  Fanning  said,  "  was  an  ambitious 
man,  thwarted  in  his  aims,  by  the  drudgery  of  support 
ing  a  family.  He  should  have  chosen  an  intellectual 
woman  as  his  second  wife,  who  could  have  helped  him 
to  regain  his  lost  ground." 

The  Doctor's  mistake  was  soon  apparent  in  his  wife's 
course.  The  faded  carpets  and  hair-cloth  sofas  were 
swept  out  of  the  dreary  old  house.  The  money  spent 
in  making  it  bright  and  pretty,  as  Mrs.  Fanning  said, 
would  have  kept  open  a  soup  house  all  winter :  Noyes's 
old  friends,  instead  of  smoking  their  meerschaums  in 
his  dusty  office,  came  in  now  to  cosey  dinners,  where 


70  SILHOUETTES  OF  AMERICAN  LIFE 

each  man  found  his  favorite  dish :  his  wife  had  a  fine 
taste  in  cookery,  it  appears :  in  that,  as  in  everything 
else  she  took  life  with  zest  and  joyously:  the  Noyes 
boys,  who  had  begun  to  hang  round  Variety  theatres 
and  engine-houses,  gave  a  series  of  dancing  parties  and 
private  theatricals  at  home,  to  which  girls  of  their 
own  class  came. 

Now  all  these  things  bring  in  bills :  the  Doctor's 
long-hoarded  money  was  spent  like  water.  It  was  an 
inscrutable  mystery  to  our  society  leaders  why  he  and 
his  boys,  and  in  fact,  all  other  men,  clustered  around 
Mrs.  Docle,  as  they  called  her,  affectionately,  like  bees 
about  honey.  She  never  said  anything  worth  remem 
bering  for  five  minutes :  she  made  no  professions  of 
love  or  friendship.  Some  of  us,  who  remembered  how 
the  whole  school  used  to  pause  to  hear  her  read  her 
Bible  verse,  thought  the  charm  lay  in  her  pleasant 
voice,  or  could  there  be  any  magic  in  the  clean,  spicy 
scent  of  Burgundy  roses  with  which  the  house  was 
always  filled  ?  The  men,  when  questioned,  really 
seemed  to  have  no  definite  idea  of  the  woman :  one 
"liked  her  because  she  was  quiet,"  another  because 
"her  handshake  was  as  firm  as  a  man's,"  another  for 
her  merry  laugh. 

In  the  meantime  they  all  carried  their  secrets  to  her  : 
the  very  classmates  of  the  ISI^es  boys  wrote  to  her 
about  their  college  scrapes  that  she  might  "  see  father 
and  mother  about  it,  and  beg  them  off."  She  had  a 
queer  "following"  of  women  too,  shabby  widows  and 
fashionable  belles  and  poor  sempstresses  —  you  were 
just  as  likely  to  find  one  at  her  table  as  the  other.  She 
had  not  the  least  perception  of  class  distinctions,  owing 


THE  DOCTOR'S    WIFE  71 

perhaps  to  those  Quaker  grandfathers  who  measured 
the  world  and  all  in  it  by  ideas.  She  had,  too,  differ 
ent  rates  of  value  from  ours  with  regard  to  other  things. 
Mrs.  Fanning  unconsciously  ranked  herself  high  in  the 
scale  of  being  because  of  her  priceless  bric-a-brac,  and 
portfolio  of  proofs  before  letters.  Mrs.  Dode  also  sur 
rounded  herself  with  old  china  and  pictures,  but  was 
indifferent  about  it :  she  did  not  carry  her  little  lux 
uries  with  the  uneasy  vanity  of  a  workman  in  his 
Sunday  shirt.  Art  and  wealth  had  been  ordinary 
appliances  of  her  mother's  people  in  Maryland  for 
generations.  She  took  no  more  notice  as  to  whether  a 
man  Avas  rich  or  poor  in  such  things  than  whether  he 
came  to  her  gloved  or  ungloved. 

Somebody  was  sure  to  bring  every  foreign  traveller 
to  the  Doctor's  house  ;  whether  it  was  prince,  novel 
ist,  or  poet,  Mrs.  Dode  welcomed  them  to  her  ordinary 
table  and  habits,  not  concerning  herself  to  inquire 
if  they  were  used  to  a  palace  or  hovel :  and  they  in 
turn  forgot  to  notice  whether  the  courses  were  served 
in  Kussian  or  French  fashion,  or  how  she  dealt  with 
her  a's. 

"  I  wish  you  to  judge  of  us  by  our  representative 
women,"  Mrs.  Fanning  said  to  one  of  these  tourists 
while  they  were  dining  at  the  Doctor's,  "  and  not 
by  negative  characters." 

But  he  could  look  at  nobody  but  the  homely  little 
woman  at  the  head  of  the  table.  "Ah,  madam,"  he 
cried,  "  there  are  so  many  representative  women  !  But 
the  old  story  tells  us  of  how  Prince  Charming  married 
the  good  fairy,  and  by  her  had  a  family  of  but  few 
children,  all  of  whom  were  born  in  the  light  of  the 


72  SILHOUETTES   OF  AMERICAN  LIFE 

moon ;  and  I  meet  one  now  and  then  in  this  country 
or  in  that.  When  I  find  one  of  them,  then  I  look  no 
farther." 

It  was  quite  natural  that  Mrs.  Dode,  having  lived 
in  so  negative  a  way,  without  making  any  mark  or 
bruit  in  the  world,  should  die  in  the  same  fashion. 
It  appears  that  while  she  seemed  in  health  some 
secret  symptoms  led  her  to  consult  a  physician.  She 
went  to  New  York  to  do  this,  saying  nothing  to  her 
husband,  and  there  learned  that  she  had  but  a  short 
time  to  live.  Whatever  grief  she  may  have  felt,  she 
showed  none  and  told  nobody  her  secret.  When  she 
came  back,  the  home  life  went  on  in  its  usual  merry 
fashion.  Dick  and  Joe  both  brought  their  brides 
home  that  winter.  Dr.  Noyes,  who  had  grown  younger 
and  more  energetic  every  year  since  his  marriage,  was 
busied  with  some  experiments  in  electricity,  which 
added  greatly  to  his  reputation.  Mrs.  Dode  did  not 
change  her  habits  in  the  least.  She  never  had  been  a 
constant  church-goer,  nor  a  member  of  any  charitable 
society,  and  she  did  not  become  one  now.  It  was 
remembered  afterwards  that  she  remained  out  longer 
in  the  mornings  on  her  rounds  among  the  poor,  and 
that  she  had  a  print  which  was  in  her  chamber,  re- 
hung,  so  that  she  could  see  it  when  she  first  woke  in 
the  morning.  (It  was  the  Head  crowned  with  thorns.) 

In  June  her  husband  was  invited  to  Baltimore  to 
an  anniversary  celebration,  in  which  he  always  took  a 
keen  delight.  She  clung  to  him  and  cried  when  he 
was  going. 

"If  you  need  me,  Dode,  I  will  stay  with  you,"  he 
said,  tenderly. 


THE  DOCTOR'S    WIFE  73 

She  hesitated  a  little,  and  then  raised  herself,  smil 
ing.  "No,  it  will  be  pleasanter  for  you  there,"  said 
she,  "only  good-bye  once  more,  dear." 

She  went  to  bed  as  usual  that  night.  In  the  morn 
ing  they  found  her  dead,  her  cheek  resting  on  her  hand, 
a  half  smile  on  the  freckled  face  :  her  other  hand, 
tight  closed,  was  lying  on  her  heart,  and  they  found 
in  it  a  bit  of  the  hair  of  the  little  dead-born  baby  that 
came  to  her  years  ago,  whose  head  had  never  rested 
on  her  bosom. 

The  morning  sun  shone  brightly  over  her,  and  the 
room  was  filled  with  the  perfume  of  fresh  roses. 


ANNE 


IT  was  a  strange  thing,  the  like  of  which  had  never 
before  happened  to  Anne.  In  her  matter-of-fact, 
orderly  life  mysterious  impressions  were  rare.  She 
tried  to  account  for  it  afterward  by  remembering  that 
she  had  fallen  asleep  out-of-doors.  And  out-of-doors, 
where  there  is  the  hot  sun  and  the  sea  and  the  teem 
ing  earth  and  tireless  winds,  there  are  perhaps  great 
forces  at  work,  both  good  and  evil,  mighty  creatures 
of  God  going  to  and  fro,  who  do  not  enter  into  the 
little  wooden  or  brick  boxes  in  which  we  cage  our 
selves.  One  of  these,  it  may  be,  had  made  her  its 
sport  for  the  time. 

Anne,  when  she  fell  asleep,  was  sitting  in  a  hammock 
on  a  veranda  of  the  house  nearest  to  the  water.  The 
wet  bright  sea-air  blew  about  her.  She  had  some  red 
roses  in  her  hands,  and  she  crushed  them  up  under  her 
cheek  to  catch  the  perfume,  thinking  drowsily  that 
the  colors  of  the  roses  and  cheek  were  the  same.  For 
she  had  had  great  beauty  ever  since  she  was  a  baby, 
and  felt  it,  as  she  did  her  blood,  from  her  feet  to  her 
head,  and  triumphed  and  was  happy  in  it.  She  had 
a  wonderful  voice  too.  She  was  silent  now,  being 
74 


ANNE  75 

nearly  asleep.  But  the  air  was  so  cold  and  pure,  and 
the  scent  of  the  roses  so  strong  in  the  sunshine,  and 
she  was  so  alive  and  throbbing  with  youth  and  beauty, 
that  it  seemed  to  her  that  she  was  singing  so  that  all 
the  world  could  hear,  and  that  her  voice  rose  —  rose 
up  and  up  into  the  very  sky. 

Was  that  George  whom  she  saw  through  her  half- 
shut  eyes  coming  across  the  lawn?  And  Theresa 
with  him  ?  She  started,  with  a  sharp  wrench  at  her 
heart. 

But  what  was  Theresa  to  George?  Ugly,  stupid, 
and  older  than  he,  a  woman  who  had  nothing  to  win 
him  —  but  money.  She  had  not  cheeks  like  rose 
leaves,  nor  youth,  nor  a  voice  that  could  sing  at 
heaven's  gate.  Anne  curled  herself,  smiling,  down  to 
sleep  again.  A  soft  warm  touch  fell  on  her  lips. 

"  George  ! " 

The  blood  stopped  in  her  veins  ;  she  trembled  even 
in  her  sleep.  A  hand  was  laid  on  her  arm. 

"  Bless  grashus,  Mrs.  Palmer !  hyah's  dat  coal  man 
wants  he's  money.  I's  been  huntin'  you  low  an'  high, 
an'  you  a-sleepin'  out'n  dohs  ! " 

Anne  staggered  to  Tier  feet. 

"  Mother,"  called  a  stout  young  man  from  the  tan- 
bark  path  below,  "I  must  catch  this  train.  Jenny 
will  bring  baby  over  for  tea.  I  wish  you  would 
explain  the  dampers  in  that  kitchen  range  to  her." 

The  wet  air  still  blew  in  straight  from  the  hazy  sea 
horizon  ;  the  crushed  red  roses  lay  on  the  floor. 

But  she  — 

There  was  a  pier-glass  in  the  room  beside  her. 
Going  up  to  it,  she  saw  a  stout  woman  of  fifty  with 


76  SILHOUETTES  OF  AMERICAN  LIFE 

grizzled  hair  and  a  big  nose.  Her  cheeks  were  yel 
low. 

She  began  to  sing.  Nothing  came  from  her  month 
but  a  discordant  yawp.  She  remembered  that  her 
voice  left  her  at  eighteen,  after  she  had  that  trouble 
with  her  larynx.  She  put  her  trembling  hand  up  to 
her  lips. 

George  had  never  kissed  them.  He  had  married 
Theresa  more  than  thirty  years  ago.  George  Forbes 
was  now  a  famous  author. 

Her  fingers  still  lay  upon  her  lips.  "  I  thought 
that  he  — "  she  whispered,  with  a  shudder  of  shame 
through  all  of  her  stout  old  body. 

But  below,  underneath  that,  her  soul  flamed  with 

rapture.     Something  within  her  cried  out,  "  /  am  here 

—  Anne!      I  am  beautiful  and  young.      If  this  old 

throat  were  different,  my  voice  would  ring  through 

earth  and  heaven." 

"Mrs.  Palmer,  de  coal  man — ." 

"  Yes,  I  am  coming,  Jane."  She  took  her  account- 
book  from  her  orderly  work-basket  and  went  down  to 
the  kitchen. 

When  she  came  back  she  found  her  daughter  Susan 
at  work  at  the  sewing-machine.  Mrs.  Palmer  stopped 
beside  her,  a  wistful  smile  on  her  face.  Susan  was  so 
young :  she  would  certainly  take  an  interest  in  this 
thing  which  had  moved  her  so  deeply.  Surely  some 
force  outside  of  nature  had  been  thrust  into  her  life 
just  now,  and  turned  it  back  to  its  beginnings  ! 

"  I  fell  asleep  out  on  the  porch  awhile  ago,  Susy," 
she  said,  "and  I  dreamed  that  I  was  sixteen  again. 
It  was  very  vivid.  I  cannot  even  now  shake  off  the 


ANNE  77 

impression  that  I  am  young  and  beautiful  and  in 
love." 

"  Ah,  yes  !  poor  dear  papa  !  "  Susy  said,  with  a  sigh, 
snipping  her  thread.  She  wished  to  say  something 
more,  something  appropriate  and  sympathetic,  about 
this  ancient  love  of  her  parents  j  but  it  really  seemed 
a  little  ridiculous,  and  besides,  she  was  in  a  hurry  to 
finish  the  ruffle.  Jasper  was  coming  up  for  tea. 

Mrs.  Palmer  hesitated,  and  then  went  on  into  her 
own  room.  She  felt  chilled  and  defeated.  She  had 
thought  Susy  would  take  an  interest,  but —  Of  course 
she  could  not  explain  to  her  that  it  was  not  of  her 
poor  dear  papa  that  she  had  dreamed.  After  all,  was 
it  quite  decent  in  a  middle-aged  respectable  woman  to 
have  such  a  dream  ?  Her  sallow  jaws  reddened  as  she 
shut  herself  in.  She  had  been  very  foolish  to  tell 
Susy  about  it  at  all. 

Mrs.  Nancy  Palmer  was  always  uncomfortably  in 
awe  of  the  hard  common-sense  of  her  children.  They 
were  both  Palmers.  When  James  was  a  baby  he  had 
looked  up  one  day  from  her  breast  with  his  calm  at 
tentive  eyes,  and  she  had  quailed  before  them.  "I 
never  shall  be  as  old  as  he  is  already,"  she  had  thought. 
But  as  they  grew  up  they  loved  their  mother  dearly. 
Her  passionate  devotion  to  them  would  have  touched 
hearts  of  stone,  and  the  Palmers  were  not  at  all  stony 
hearted,  but  kindly,  good-humored  folk,  like  their 
father. 

The  neighborhood  respected  Mrs.  Palmer  as  a  woman 
of  masculine  intellect  because,  after  her  husband's 
death,  she  had  managed  the  plantation  with  remarka 
ble  energy  and  success.  She  had  followed  his  exact, 


78  SILHOUETTES   OF  AMERICAN  LIFE 

methodical  habits  in  peach-growing  and  in  the  man 
agement  of  house,  had  cleared  the  property  of  debt, 
and  then  had  invested  in  Western  lands  so  shrewdly 
as  to  make  herself  and  the  children  rich. 

But  James  and  Susan  were  always  secretly  amused 
at  the  deference  paid  to  their  mother  by  the  good 
Delaware  planters.  She  was  the  dearest  woman  in 
the  world,  but  as  to  a  business  head  — • 

All  her  peach  crops,  her  Dakota  speculations,  and 
the  bank  stock  which  was  the  solid  fruit  thereof  went 
for  nothing  as  proofs  to  them  of  adult  good  sense. 
They  were  only  dear  mamma's  lucky  hits.  How  could 
a  woman  have  a  practical  head  who  grew  so  bored 
with  the  pleasant  church  sociables,  and  refused  abso 
lutely  to  go  to  the  delightful  Literary  Circle  ?  who 
would  listen  to  a  hand-organ  with  tears  in  her  eyes, 
and  who  had  once  actually  gone  all  the  way  up  to 
Philadelphia  to  hear  an  Italian  stroller  named  Salvini  ? 

Neither  of  them  could  understand  such  childish 
outbreaks.  Give  a  Palmer  a  good  peach  farm,  a  com 
fortable  house,  and  half  a  dozen  servants  to  worry 
him,  and  his  lines  of  life  were  full.  Why  should  their 
mother  be  uneasy  inside  of  these  lines  ? 

That  she  was  uneasy  to-day,  Susy  soon  perceived. 
A  letter  came  from  Pierce  and  Wall,  her  consignees 
in  Philadelphia;  but  Mrs.  Palmer  threw  it  down 
unopened,  though  she  had  shipped  three  hundred 
crates  of  Morris  Whites  last  Monday. 

She  was  usually  a  most  careful  house-keeper,  keep 
ing  a  sharp  eye  on  the  careless  negroes,  but  she  dis 
appeared  for  hours  this  afternoon,  although  Jasper 
Tyrrell  was  coming  for  tea,  and  Jane  was  sure  to 


ANNE  79 

make  a  greasy  mess  of  the  terrapin  if  left  to  her 
self. 

Jasper  certainly  had  paid  marked  attention  to  Susy 
lately,  but  she  knew  that  he  was  a  cool,  prudent  young 
fellow,  who  would  look  at  the  matter  on  every  side 
before  he  committed  himself.  The  Tyrrells  were  an 
old,  exclusive  family,  who  would  exact  perfection  from 
a  bride  coming  among  them,  from  her  theology  to  her 
tea  biscuit. 

"A  trifle  of  less  importance  than  messy  terrapin 
has  often  disgusted  a  man,"  thought  Susy,  her  blue 
eyes  dim  with  impatience. 

Just  before  sunset  Mrs.  Palmer  came  up  the  road, 
her  hands  full  of  brilliant  maple  leaves.  Susy  hurried 
to  meet  and  kiss  her ;  for  the  Palmers  were  a  demon 
strative  family,  who  expressed  their  affection  by  a 
perpetual  petting  and  buzzing  about  each  other.  The 
entire  household  would  shudder  with  anxiety  if  a 
draught  blew  on  mamma's  neck,  and  fall  into  an  agony 
of  apprehension  if  the  baby  had  a  cold  in  its  head. 
Mrs.  Palmer,  for  some  reason,  found  that  this  habit 
of  incessant  watchfulness  bored  her  just  now. 

"No,  my  shoes  are  not  damp,  Susy.  No,  I  did  not 
need  a  shawl.  I  am  not  in  my  dotage,  child,  that  I 
cannot  walk  out  without  being  wrapped  up  like  an 
Esquimau.  One  would  think  I  was  on  the  verge  of 
the  grave." 

"Oh,  no,  but  you  are  not  young,  darling  mamma. 
You  are  just  at  the  age  when  rheumatisms  and  lumba 
goes  and  such  things  set  in  if  one  is  not  careful.  Where 
have  you  been  ?  " 

"  I  took  a  walk  in  the  woods.'7 


80  SILHOUETTES  OF  AMERICAN  LIFE 

"  Woods !  No  wonder  your  shoulders  are  damp. 
Come  in  directly,  dear.  Four  grains  of  quinine  and 
a  hot  lemonade  going  to  bed.  Walking  in  the  woods ! 
Really,  now,  that  is  something  I  cannot  understand," 
—  smiling  at  her  mother  as  though  she  were  a  very 
small  child  indeed.  "  Now  I  can  walk  any  distance 
to  church,  or  to  shop,  or  for  any  reasonable  motive, 
but  to  go  wandering  about  in  the  swampy  woods  for 
no  earthly  purpose  —  I'll  press  those  leaves  for  you/' 
checking  herself. 

"No ;  I  do  not  like  to  see  pressed  leaves  and  grasses 
about  in  vases.  It  is  like  making  ornaments  of  hair 
cut  from  a  dead  body.  When  summer  is  dead,  let  it 
die."  She  threw  down  the  leaves  impatiently,  and 
the  wind  whirled  them  away. 

"  How  queer  mamma  and  the  people  of  that  genera 
tion  are  —  so  little  self-control ! "  thought  Susy.  "  It 
is  nearly  time  for  Mr.  Tyrrell  to  be  here,"  she  said 
aloud.  "  Can  Jane  season  the  terrapin  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  suppose  so,"  said  Mrs.  Palmer,  indifferently, 
taking  up  a  book. 

She  was  indifferent  and  abstracted  all  evening. 
Peter  clattered  the  dishes  as  he  waited  at  the  supper- 
table,  and  the  tea  was  lukewarm.  Jasper  was  luke 
warm  too,  silent  and  critical. 

James's  wife,  Jenny,  had  come  over  for  supper,  and 
finding  her  mother-in-law  so  absent  and  inattentive, 
poured  forth  her  anecdotes  of  baby  to  Mr.  Tyrrell. 
Jenny,  like  most  young  mothers,  gave  forth  inexhaust 
ibly  theories  concerning  the  sleep,  diet,  and  digestion 
of  infants.  Jasper,  bored  and  uneasy,  snuffled  in  his 
chair.  He  had  always  thought  Mrs.  Palmer  was 


ANNE  81 

charming  as  a  hostess,  full  of  tact,  in  fine  rapport  with 
every  one.  Couldn't  she  see  how  this  woman  was 
bedevilling  him  with  her  croup  and  her  flannels  ? 
She  was  apparently  blind  and  deaf  to  it  all. 

Mrs.  Palmer's  vacant  eyes  were  turned  out  of  the 
window.  Susy  glanced  at  her  with  indignation.  Was 
mamma  deranged  ? 

How  petty  the  pursuits  of  these  children  were ! 
thought  the  older  woman,  regarding  them  as  from  a 
height.  How  cautious  and  finical  Tyrrell  was  in  his 
love-making !  Susy  too  —  six  months  ago  she  had 
carefully  inquired  into  Jasper's  income. 

Tea  biscuit  and  flannels  and  condensed  milk !  At 
seventeen  her  horizon  had  not  been  so  cramped  and 
shut  in.  How  wide  and  beautiful  the  world  had  been  ! 
Nature  had  known  her  and  talked  to  her,  and  in  all 
music  there  had  been  a  word  for  her,  alone  and  apart. 
How  true  she  had  been  to  her  friends !  how  she  had 
hated  her  enemies  !  how,  when  love  came  to  her  — 
Mrs.  Palmer  felt  a  sudden  chill  shiver  through  her 
limbs.  She  sat  silent  until  they  rose  from  table. 
Then  she  hurried  to  her  own  room.  She  did  not 
make  a  light.  She  told  herself  that  she  was  absurdly 
nervous,  and  bathed  her  face  and  wrists  in  cold  water. 
But  she  could  not  strike  a  light.  This  creature  within 
her,  this  Anne,  vivid  and  beautiful  and  loving,  was  she 
to  face  the  glass  and  see  the  old  yellow-skinned  woman  ? 

She  ought  to  think  of  that  old  long-ago  self  as  dead. 

But  it  was  not  dead. 

"If  I  had  married  the  man  I  loved,"  this  something 
within  her  cried,  "I  should  have  had  my  true  life. 
He  would  have  understood  me.'7 


82  SILHOUETTES   OF  AMERICAN  LIFE 

How  ridiculous  and  wicked  it  all  was ! 

"  I  was  a  loyal,  loving  wife  to  Job  Palmer,"  she 
told  herself,  resolutely  lighting  the  lamp  and  facing 
the  stout  figure  in  the  glass  with  its  puffy  black  silk 
gown.  "  My  life  went  down  with  his  into  the  grave." 

But  there  was  a  flash  in  the  gray  pleading  eyes 
which  met  her  in  the  glass  that  gave  her  the  lie. 

They  were  Anne's  eyes,  and  Anne  had  never  been 
Job  Palmer's  wife. 

Mrs.  Palmer  did  not  go  down  again  that  night.  A 
wood  fire  blazed  on  her  hearth,  and  she  put  on  her 
wrapper  and  drew  her  easy-chair  in  front  of  it,  with 
the  little  table  beside  her  on  which  lay  her  Bible  and 
prayer-book  and  a  Kempis.  This  quiet  hour  was  usu 
ally  the  happiest  of  the  day.  James  and  Jenny  always 
came  in  to  kiss  her  good-bye,  and  Susy  regularly  crept 
in  when  the  house  was  quiet  to  read  a  chapter  with 
her  mother  and  to  tuck  her  snugly  into  bed. 

But  to-night  she  locked  her  door.  She  wanted  to 
be  alone.  She  tried  to  read,  but  pushed  the  books 
away,  and  turning  out  the  light,  threw  herself  upon 
the  bed.  Not  a  Kempis  nor  any  holy  saint  could 
follow  her  into  the  solitudes  into  which  her  soul  had 
gone.  Could  God  Himself  understand  how  intolerable 
this  old  clumsy  body  had  grown  to  her  ? 

She  remembered  that  when  she  had  been  ill  with 
nervous  prostration  two  years  ago  she  had  in  an  hour 
suddenly  grown  eighty  years  old.  Now  the  blood  of 
sixteen  was  in  her  veins.  Why  should  this  soul 
within  her  thus  dash  her  poor  brain  from  verge  to 
verge  of  its  narrow  range  of  life  ? 

The  morbid  fancies  of  the  night  brought  her  by 


ANNE  83 

morning  to  an  odd  resolution.  She  would  go  away. 
Why  should  she  not  go  away  ?  She  had  done  her  full 
duty  to  husband,  children,  and  property.  Why  should 
she  not  begin  somewhere  else,  live  out  her  own  life  ? 
Why  should  she  not  have  her  chance  for  the  few 
years  left  ?  Music  and  art  and  the  companionship  of 
thinkers  and  scholars.  Mrs.  Palmer's  face  grew  pale 
as  she  named  these  things  so  long  forbidden  to  her. 

It  was  now  dawn.  She  hastily  put  on  a  travelling 
dress,  and  placed  a  few  necessary  articles  and  her 
check-book  in  a  satchel. 

"  Carry  this  to  the  station,"  she  said  to  Peter,  who, 
half  asleep,  was  making  up  the  fires. 

"  Gwine  to  Philadelphy,  Mis'  Palmer  ?  Does  Miss 
Susy  know  ?  " 

"  Xo.     Tell  her  I  have  been  suddenly  called  away." 

As  she  walked  to  the  station  she  smiled  to  think 
how  Susy  would  explain  her  sudden  journey  by  the 
letter  from  Pierce  and  Wall,  and  would  look  to  find 
whether  she  had  taken  her  overshoes  and  chamois 
jacket.  "I  hate  overshoes,  and  I  would  like  to  tear 
that  jacket  into  bits  ! "  she  thought  as  she  took  her 
seat  in  the  car.  She  was  going  to  escape  from  it  all. 
She  would  no  longer  be  happed  and  dosed  and  watched 
like  a  decrepit  old  crone.  She  was  an  Affectionate 
mother,  but  it  actually  did  not  occur  to  her  that  she 
was  leaving  Susy  and  James  and  the  baby.  She  was 
possessed  with  a  frenzy  of  delight  in  escaping.  The 
train  moved.  She  was  free !  She  could  be  herself 
now  at  last ! 

It  could  be  easily  arranged.  She  would  withdraw 
her  certificates  and  government  bonds  from  the  vaults 


84  SILHOUETTES  OF  AMERICAN  LIFE 

of  the  trust  company  in  Philadelphia.  The  children 
had  their  own  property  secure. 

Where  should  she  go  ?  To  Rome  ?  Venice  ?  No. 
There  were  so  many  Americans  trotting  about  Europe. 
She  must  be  rid  of  them  all.  Now  there  was  Egypt 
and  the  Nile.  Or  if  another  expedition  were  going  to 
Iceland  ?  Up  there  in  the  awful  North  among  the 
glaciers  and  geysers,  and  sagas  and  Runic  relics,  one 
would  be  in  another  world,  and  forget  Morris  Whites 
and  church  sociables  and  the  wiggling  village  gossip. 

"There  are  people  in  this  country  who  live  in  a 
high  pure  atmosphere  of  thought,  who  never  descend 
to  gossip  or  money-making/'  she  thought,  remember 
ing  the  lofty  strains  of  George  Forbes's  last  poem. 
"  If  I  had  been  his  wrife  I  too  might  have  thought 
great  thoughts  and  lived  a  noble  life." 

She  tried  angrily  to  thrust  away  this  idea.  She  did 
not  mean  to  be  a  traitor  to  her  husband,  whom  she 
had  loved  well  and  long. 

But  the  passion  of  her  youth  maddened  her.  Job 
had  been  a  good  commonplace  man.  But  this  other 
was  a  Seer,  a  Dictator  of  thought  to  the  world. 

The  train  rolled  into  Broad  Street  station.  Mrs. 
Palmer  went  to  the  Trust  company  and  withdrew  her 
bonds.  She  never  before  had  come  up  to  the  city 
alone ;  Susy  always  accompanied  her  to  "  take  care  of 
dear  mamma."  Susy,  who  had  provincial  ideas  as  to 
"  what  people  in  our  position  should  do,"  always  took 
her  to  the  most  fashionable  hotel,  and  ordered  a  din 
ner  the  cost  of  which  weighed  upon  her  conscience 
for  months  afterward.  Mrs.  Palmer  now  went  to  a 
cheap  little  cafe  in  a  back  street,  and  ate  a  chop  with 


the  keen  delight  of  a  runaway  dog  gnawing  a  stolen 
bone.  A  cold  rain  began  to  fall,  and  she  was  damp 
and  chilled  when  she  returned  to  the  station. 

Where  should  she  go  ?  Italy  —  the  Xile  —  Heav 
ens  !  there  were  the  Crotons  from  Dover  getting  out 
of  the  train!  She  must  go  somewhere  at  once  to 
hide  herself  ;  afterward  she  could  decide  on  her  course. 
A  queue  of  people  were  at  the  ticket  window.  She 
placed  herself  in  line. 

"  Boston  ?  "  said  the  agent. 

She  nodded.  In  five  minutes  she  was  seated  in 
a  parlor  car,  and  thundering  across  the  bridge  above 
the  great  abattoir.  She  looked  down  on  the  cattle  in 
their  sheds.  "I  do  wonder  if  Peter  will  give  Eosy 
her  warm  mash  to-night  ?  "  she  thought,  uneasily. 

There  were  but  three  seats  occupied  in  the  car. 
Two  men  and  a  lady  entered  together  and  sat  near  to 
Mrs.  Palmer,  so  that  she  could  not  but  hear  their  talk, 
which  at  first  ran  upon  draughts. 

"You  might  open  your  window,  Corvill,"  said  one 
of  the  men,  "if  Mrs.  Ames  is  not  afraid  of  neuralgia." 

Corvill  ?  Ames  ?  Mrs.  Palmer  half  rose  from  her 
seat.  Why,  Corvill  was  the  name  of  the  great  figure- 
painter  !  She  had  an  etching  of  his  "  Hagar."  She 
never  looked  into  that  woman's  face  without  a  wrench 
at  her  heart.  All  human  pain  and  longing  spoke  in  it 
as  they  did  in  George  Forbes's  poems.  Mrs.  Ames, 
she  had  heard,  was  chairman  of  the  Woman's  National 
Society  for  the  Examination  of  Prisons.  Mrs.  Palmer 
had  read  her  expose  of  the  abominations  of  the  lessee 
system  —  words  burning  with  a  fiery  zeal  for  human 
ity.  There  had  been  a  symposium  in  Philadelphia, 


86  SILHOUETTES   OF  AMERICAN  LIFE 

she  remembered,  of  noted  authors  and  artists  this 
week. 

No  doubt  these  were  two  of  those  famous  folk. 
Mrs.  Palmer  drew  nearer,  feeling  as  if  she  were  creep 
ing  up  to  the  base  of  Mount  Olympus.  This  was 
what  happened  when  one  cut  loose  from  Morris 
Whites  and  terrapin  and  that  weary  Jane  and  Peter ! 
The  Immortals  were  outside,  and  she  had  come  into 
their  company. 

"  Oh,  open  the  window ! "  said  Mrs.  Ames,  who  had 
a  hoarse  voice  which  came  in  bass  gusts  and  snorts 
out  of  a  mouth  mustached  like  a  man's.  "  Let's  have 
some  air !  The  sight  of  those  emigrants  huddled  in 
the  station  nauseated  me.  Women  and  babies  all 
skin  and  bone  and  rags." 

Now  Mrs.  Palmer  had  just  emptied  her  purse  and 
almost  cried  over  that  wretched  group.  That  sick 
baby's  cry  would  wring  any  woman's  heart,  she 
thought.  Could  it  be  that  this  great  philanthropist 
had  pity  only  for  the  misery  of  the  masses  ?  But 
the  man  who  painted  "  Hagar  "  surely  would  be  piti- 
'  ful  and  tender  ? 

"  Sorry  they  annoyed  you,"  he  was  saying.  "  Some 
very  good  subjects  among  them.  I  made  two  sketches," 
pulling  out  a  note-book.  "That  half -starved  woman 
near  the  door  —  see  ?  —  eh  ?  Fine  slope  in  the  chin 
and  jaw.  I  wanted  a  dying  baby  for  my  '  Exiles/ 
too.  I  caught  the  very  effect  I  wanted.  Sick  child." 

Mrs.  Palmer  turned  her  revolving  chair  away.  It 
was  a  trifling  disappointment,  but  it  hurt  her.  She 
was  in  that  strained,  feverish  mood  when  trifles  hurt 
sharply.  These  were  mere  hucksters  of  art  and  hu- 


ANNE  87 

inanity.  They  did  not  belong  to  the  high  pure  level 
011  which  stood  great  interpreters  of  the  truth  —  such, 
for  instance,  as  George  Forbes.  The  little  quake 
which  always  passed  through  her  at  this  man's  name 
was  increased  by  a  shiver  from  the  damp  wind  blow 
ing  upon  her.  She  sneezed  twice. 

Mrs.  Ames  stared  at  her  insolently,  and  turned  her 
back,  fearing  that  she  might  be  asked  to  put  down 
the  window. 

Mr.  Corvill  was  talking  about  the  decoration  of  the 
car.  "  Not  bad  at  all,"  he  said.  "  There  is  great 
tenderness  in  the  color  of  that  ceiling,  and  just  look 
at  the  lines  of  the  chairs  !  They  are  full  of  feeling." 

Mrs.  Palmer  listened,  bewildered.  But  now  they 
were  looking  at  the  landscape.  If  he  found  feeling 
in  the  legs  of  a  chair,  what  new  meanings  would  he 
not  discover  in  that  vast  stretch  of  lonely  marsh  with 
the  narrow  black  lagoons  creeping  across  it  ? 

"Nice  effect,"  said  Mr.  Corvill — "the  lichen  on 
that  barn  against  the  green.  I  find  little  worth  using 
in  the  fall  this  year,  however.  Too  much  umber  in 
the  coloring." 

Could  it  be,  she  thought,  that  these  people  had  made 
a  trade  of  art  and  humanity  until  they  had  lost  the 
perception  of  their  highest  meanings  ? 

"I  should  think,"  continued  Corvill,  turning  to 
the  other  man,  "you  could  find  materiel  for  some 
verses  in  these  flats.  Ulalume,  or  The  Land  of  Dolor. 
Something  in  that  line.  Eh,  Forbes  ?  " 

Forbes !  Her  breath  stopped.  That  fat  hunched 
man  with  the  greasy  black  whiskers  and  gaudy  chain  ! 
Yes,  that  was  his  voice  ;  but  had  it  always  that  tone 
of  vulgar  swagger  ? 


88  SILHOUETTES   OF  AMERICAN  LIFE 

"I've  stopped  verse-writing,"  lie  said.  "Poetry's  a 
drug  in  the  market.  My  infernal  publishers  shut 
down  on  it  five  years  ago." 

He  turned,  and  she  then  saw  his  face  —  the  thin 
hard  lips,  the  calculating  eye. 

Was  this  man  "  George "  ?  Or  had  that  George 
ever  lived  except  in  her  fancy  ? 

"Mr.  Forbes."  She  rose.  The  very  life  in  her 
seemed  to  stop ;  her  knees  shook.  But  habit  is 
strong.  She  bowed  as  she  named  him,  and  stood 
there,  smiling,  the  courteous,  thorough-bred  old  lady 
whose  charm  young  Tyrrell  had  recognized.  Some 
power  in  the  pathetic  gray  eyes  startled  Forbes  and 
brought  him  to  his  feet. 

"I  think  1  knew  you  long  ago,"  she  said.  "If  it 
is  you  —  ?  " 

"  Forbes  is  my  name,  ma'am.  Lord  bless  me  !  you 
can't  be —  Something  familiar  in  your  eyes.  You 
remind  me  of  Judge  Sinclair's  daughter  Fanny." 

"  Anne  was  my  name." 

"  Anne.  To  be  sure.  I  knew  it  was  Nanny  or 
Fanny.  I  ought  to  remember,  for  I  was  spoons  on 
you  myself  for  a  week  or  two.  You  know  you  were 
reckoned  the  best  catch  in  the  county,  eh?  Sit 
down,  ma'am,  sit  down;  people  of  our  weight  aren't 
built  for  standing." 

"  Is  —  your  wife  with  you  ?  " 

"You  refer  to  the  first  Mrs.  Forbes  —  Theresa 
Stone  ?  I  have  been  married  twice  since  her  decease. 
I  am  now  a  widower."  He  put  his  hand  to  his  mouth 
and  coughed,  glancing  at  the  crape  on  his  hat.  His 
breath  crossed  her  face.  It  reeked  of  heavy  feeding 


ANNE  89 

and  night  orgies  ;  for  Forbes,  though  avaricious,  had 
gross  appetites. 

Suddenly  Job  Palmer  stood  before  her,  with  his  fine 
clear-cut  face  and  reasonable  eyes.  He  knew  little 
outside  of  his  farm  perhaps ;  but  how  clean  was  his 
soul !  How  he  had  loved  her  ! 

The  car  at  that  moment  swayed  violently  from  side 
to  side ;  the  lamps  went  out.  "  Hello !  "  shouted 
Forbes.  "  Something  wrong  !  We  must  get  out  of 
this ! "  rushing  to  the  door.  She  braced  herself 
against  her  chair. 

In  the  outside  darkness  the  rushing  of  steam  was 
heard,  and  shrieks  of  women  in  mortal  agony.  A 
huge  weight  fell  on  the  car,  crushing  in  the  roof. 
Mrs.  Palmer  was  jammed  between  two  beams,  but 
unhurt.  A  heavy  rain  was  falling. 

"  I  shall  not  be  burned  to  death,  at  any  rate,"  she 
thought,  and  then  fortunately  became  insensible. 

In  half  an  hour  she  was  cut  out  and  laid  on  the 
bank,  wet  and  half  frozen,  but  with  whole  bones. 
She  tried  to  rise,  but  could  not ;  every  joint  ached 
with  rheumatism ;  her  gown  was  in  tatters,  the  mud 
was  deep  under  her,  and  the  rain  pelted  down.  She 
saw  the  fire  burning  on  her  hearth  at  home,  and  the 
easy-chair  in  front  of  it,  and  the  Bible  and  a  Kem pis. 

Some  men  with  lanterns  came  up  and  bent  over  her. 

"  Great  God,  mother  ! "  one  of  them  cried.  It  was 
James,  who  had  been  on  the  same  train,  going  to  New 
York. 

The  next  day  she  was  safely  laid  in  her  own  bed. 
The  fire  was  burning  brightly,  and  Susy  was  keeping 
guard  that  she  might  sleep.  Jenny  had  just  brought 


90  SILHOUETTES   OF  AMERICAN  LIFE 

a  delicious  bowl  of  soup  and  fed  it  to  her,  and  baby 
had  climbed  up  on  the  bed  to  hug  her,  and  fallen 
asleep  there.  She  held  him  in  her  arm,  James  came 
in  on  tiptoe,  and  bent  anxiously  over  her.  She  saw 
them  all  through  her  half-shut  eyes. 

"  My  own  —  flesh  of  my  flesh  ! "  she  thought,  and 
thanked  God  from  her  soul  for  the  love  that  held  her 
warm  and  safe. 

As  she  dozed,  Susy  and  James  bent  over  her. 
"  Where  could  she  have  been  going  ?  "  said  Susy. 

"  To  New  York ;  no  doubt  to  make  a  better  con 
tract  than  the  one  she  has  with  Pierce  and  Wall  —  to 
make  a  few  more  dollars  for  us.  Or,  an  investment : 
her  bonds  were  all  in  her  satchel..  Poor  dear  unselfish 
soul !  Don't  worry  her  with  questions,  Susy  —  don't 
speak  of  it." 

"No,  I  will  not,  Jim,"  said  Susy,  wiping  her  eyes. 
"  But  if  she  only  had  taken  her  chamois  jacket ! " 

James  himself,  when  his  mother  was  quite  well, 
remarked  one  day,  "  We  had  a  famous  fellow-traveller 
in  that  train  to  New  York  — Forbes,  the  author." 

"  A  most  disagreeable,  underbred  person ! "  said 
Mrs.  Palmer,  vehemently.  "  I  would  not  have  you 
notice  such  people,  James  —  a  mere  shopman  of  liter 
ature  ! " 


Susy  married  Jasper  Tyrrell  that  winter.  They 
live  in  the  homestead  now,  and  Mrs.  Palmer  has 
four  or  five  grandchildren  about  her,  whom  she  spoils 
to  her  heart's  content.  She  still  dabbles  a  little  in 
mining  speculations;  but  since  her  accident  on  the 


ANNE 

cars  she  is  troubled  with  rheumatism,  and  leaves  the 
management  of  the  farm  and  house  to  Jasper  and 
Susy*  She  has  a  quiet,  luxurious,  happy  life,  being 
petted  like  a  baby  by  all  of  the  Palmers.  Yet  some 
times  in  the  midst  of  all  this  comfort  and  sunshine  a 
chance  note  of  music  or  the  sound  of  the  restless 
wind  will  bring  an  expression  into  her  eyes  which 
her  children  do  not  understand,  as  if  some  creature 
unknown  to  them  looked  out  of  them. 

At  such  times  Mrs.  Palmer  will  say  to  herself, 
"Poor  Anne  !  "  as  of  somebody  whom  she  once  knew 
that  is  dead. 

Is  she  dead?  she  feebly  wonders;  and  if  she  is 
dead  here,  will  she  ever  live  again  ? 


AN   IGNOBLE   MARTYR 


OLD  Aaron  Pettit,  who  had  tried  to  live  for  ten 
years  with  half  of  his  body  dead  from  paralysis, 
had  given  up  at  last.  He  was  altogether  dead  now, 
and  laid  away  out  of  sight  in  the  three-cornered  lot 
where  the  Pettits  had  been  buried  since  colonial  days. 
The  graveyard  was  a  triangle  cut  out  of  the  wheat 
field  by  a  certain  Osee  Pettit  in  1G95.  Many  a  time 
had  Aaron,  while  ploughing,  stopped  to  lean  over  the 
fence  and  calculate  how  many  bushels  of  grain  the 
land  thus  given  up  to  the  dead  men  would  have 
yielded. 

"They  can  keep  it.  I'll  not  plough  it  up,"  he 
would  mumble  to  himself  with  conscious  virtue.  "  But 
land  was  to  be  hed  for  the  fencin'  then,  evidently,  or 
no  Pettit  would  have  wasted  it  on  corpses  that  might 
as  well  have  lain  in  the  churchyard." 

Now,  Aaron  himself  was  in  the  wasted  triangle,  and 
as  his  daughter  Priscilla  saw  his  coffin  lowered  into  it 
she  felt  a  wrench  of  pity  for  him,  because  he  never 
again  could  see  the  wheat  grow  in  the  lot  around  him, 
nor  count  how  many  dollars  profit  it  would  yield  that 
year  to  pay  the  interest  on  the  mortgage.  It  was  nat- 
92 


AN  IGNOBLE  MARTYR  93 

ural  that  she  should  feel  that  he  was  really  dead  in 
just  that  way,  for  the  wheat  lot  was  the  only  property 
owned  by  the  Pettits,  and  that  mortgage  their  only 
active  interest  in  life. 

When  the  funeral  was  over,  the  neighbors,  as  is  the 
custom  in  Xorth  Leedom,  came  back  to  the  house,  and 
sat  in  silence  for  half  an  hour  in  the  little  parlor. 
The  undertaker  had  given  the  silver  plate  from  the 
coffin  lid  to  Prue,  as  the  oldest  child,  and  she  hung  it 
up  now  with  a  sad  pride  over  the  mantel-shelf.  There 
were  six  other  coffin  plates  there,  the  only  decorations 
on  the  parlor  wall. 

Her  younger  brother,  who  had  left  "  the  mourners  " 
and  was  in  the  kitchen,  called  her  out  impatiently. 
"  Are  you  going  to  put  that  horrible  thing  up  there, 
Prissy?"  he  said. 

"  Horrible !  "  said  Prue,  aghast.  "  It  is  very  hand 
some,  Bowles.  It  cost  three  dollars  and  sixty -three 
cents.  And  why  should  I  show  disrespect  to  father?  " 

"Oh,  if  it  is  counted  disrespect!  —  Prue,  can't  we 
give  these  people  a  cup  of  tea?  There  are  the  Waces, 
they  have  come  ten  miles,  and  they  have  to  go  back 
without  any  dinner.  And  the  Fords.  Some  tea  and 
doughnuts?"  He  looked  anxiously  into  her  face. 

The  heat  rose  into  Prue's  cheeks,  and  her  eyes 
shone.  There  was  something  delightful  to  her  in 
this  bold  proposal,  for  she  had,  unknown  to  herself,  a 
hospitable  soul.  She  had  never  seen  a  stranger  break 
bread  under  their  roof.  But  on  such  an  occasion  as 
this  — 

"What  would  mother  say?"  she  whispered.  "Oh, 
no,  no,  Bowles!  I  can't  do  it.  There  are  ten  of 


9-1  SILHOUETTES   OF  AMERICAN  LIFE 

them"  —peering  into  the  parlor — "ten.  It  would 
take  a  quarter  of  a  pound  of  tea;  and  then  the  sugar. 
Oh  no,  we  couldn't  afford  it!  "  and  she  went  back  and 
sat  down  again  with  the  mourners,  comforting  herself 
that  nobody  would  expect  to  be  fed.  In  North  Leedom 
the  folks  did  not  eat  in  each  others7  houses.  It  would 
have  been  thought  a  wicked  waste  to  "  treat  to  vict 
uals,"  as,  it  was  reported,  was  the  common  custom  in 
larger  towns. 

This  was  no  time,  Prue  felt,  for  her  to  appear 
eccentric  or  extravagant;  and  it  would  have  been 
extravagant.  Tea  and  cakes  for  ten  would  have  made 
a  big  break  in  the  money  to  be  saved  for  the  fall  pay 
ment  on  the  mortgage. 

The  Pettits  during  the  next  week  took  up  the  thread 
of  their  daily  life  unbroken.  The  little  four-roomed 
house  had,  of  course,  a  thorough  cleaning.  Under 
takers  and  neighbors  had  left  dust  behind  them.  Mrs. 
Pettit  had  grace  to  help  her  bear  the  pains  which 
death  had  left;  but  dirt  she  would  not  put  up  with. 
The  furniture  was  all  taken  out  into  the  yard  to 
be  sunned;  the  stair  carpet,  with  its  hundred  neat 
patches,  was  washed,  dried,  and  tacked  down  again. 
The  furniture  in  the  house  was  of  the  cheapest  kind, 
but  it  had  belonged  to  Mrs.  Pettit's  grandmother,  and 
had  always  been  cared  for  with  a  tender  reverence, 
not  because  of  its  associations,  but  for  its  money  value. 
Indeed,  so  much  of  the  lives  of  the  Pettit  women  for 
generations  had  gone  into  the  care  of  these  speckless 
chairs  and  tables  that  one  might  suspect  a  likeness 
between  the  condition  of  their  souls  and  that  of  the 
filthy  Fijian  who  worships  the  string  of  bones  which 
he  polishes  incessantly. 


AN  IGNOBLE  MARTYR  95 

Bowles  despised  the  tables  and  chairs.  But  the 
mortgage !  That  was  another  thing  —  a  thing  so  seri 
ous  that  it  seemed  to  overshadow,  to  choke  his  whole 
life.  John  Pettit,  his  grandfather,  in  some  great 
emergency,  had  put  the  house  under  a  mortgage,  had 
worked  for  twenty  years  to  clear  it  off,  and  died,  leav 
ing  the  task  to  Aaron.  Aaron  had  accepted  it  as  a 
sacred  trust;  every  penny  he  could  save  had  gone  to 
it.  Now  he  was  dead,  and  there  was  still  a  thousand 
dollars  due  on  it. 

Mrs.  Pettit  was  too  nearly  blind  to  work.  Prue 
sewed  on  men's  seersucker  coats  for  a  factory  in  Bos 
ton.  She  was  paid  sixty  cents  a  dozen  for  them. 
This  paid  the  taxes  and  bought  their  clothes. 

Bowles  knew  that  his  mother  and  sister  and  all  of 
the  village  expected  him  to  take  up  the  payment  of 
this  mortgage  as  the  work  of  his  life. 

The  minister,  old  Mr.  Himins,  had  said  as  much  to 
him  after  the  funeral. 

"It  is  a  noble  ambition,  my  boy,"  he  said,  "fora 
man  to  own  the  home  of  his  fathers  free  of  debt.  In 
our  New  England  towns  there  are  thousands  of  men 
and  women  struggling  in  dire  poverty  all  their  lives 
with  this  aim  before  them." 

This  aim!     What  aim? 

Bowles,  sitting  one  evening  under  the  old  elm-tree 
as  the  sun  was  going  down,  looked  at  the  ugly,  bare 
little  house  and  hated  it.  Had  life  nothing  more  for 
him  than  —  that ? 

He  looked  about  him.  North  Leedom  was  made 
up  of  just  such  ugly,  clean,  bare  houses.  There  were 
no  trees  on  the  sidewalks,  no  flowers  in  the  yards. 


96  SILHOUETTES   OF  AMERICAN  LIFE 

The  people  had  been  poor  for  generations,  and  they 
had  reduced  the  economy  of  their  Puritan  ancestors 
to  an  art  so  hard  and  cruel  that  it  dominated  them 
now  in  body  and  soul.  To  save  was  no  longer  a  dis 
agreeable  necessity  for  them;  it  had  become  the  high 
est  of  duties. 

The  Pettits  had  always  crept  along  in  the  same  rut 
with  their  neighbors.  They  would  not  buy  sufficient 
food  to  satisfy  their  craving  stomachs.  With  each 
generation  they  grew  leaner  and  weaker;  the  sallow 
skin  clung  more  tightly  to  their  bones ;  the  men  be 
came  victims  of  dyspepsia,  the  women  of  nervous 
prostration. 

Each  generation,  too,  carried  the  niggardly  economy 
a  little  farther.  They  "could  not  afford  time"  for 
flowers  nor  for  music;  they  could  not  afford  to  buy 
books  nor  newspapers.  They  came  at  last  in  their 
fierce  zeal  for  saving  to  begrudge  smiles  and  welcomes 
to  each  other  or  kisses  and  hugs  to  their  children. 

They  stripped  their  lives  of  all  the  little  kindly 
amenities,  the  generosities  of  feeling  and  word  which 
make  life  elsewhere  cheerful  and  tender.  If  their 
starved  hearts,  sometimes,  like  their  bodies,  gave  signs 
of  hunger,  they  were  only  mortified  at  their  own  lack 
of  self-control.  Their  history  was  that  of  countless 
families  in  New  England  villages. 

Bowles  Pettit,  thinking  over  the  lives  of  his  neigh 
bors  and  family,  tried  to  judge  fairly  of  his  own.  But 
he  was  ashamed  to  find  that  he  could  scarcely  think 
at  all,  he  was  so  hungry.  He  was  a  big,  raw-boned, 
growing  boy;  the  nervous  strain  of  the  last  week  had 
been  severe  on  him.  He  needed  food,  and  he  knew 


AN  IGNOBLE  MARTYR  97 

lie  would  not  have  enough  to-day.  He  could  not 
remember  the  day  when  he  had  had  enough.  He  knew 
how  it  would  be.  Presently  the  cracked  tea  bell 
would  ring,  and  he  would  go  in  to  eat  a  small  slice  of 
cold,  soggy  pie,  washed  down  with  a  glass  of  cold 
water.  To-morrow  morning  for  breakfast  more  cold  pie 
and  a  doughnut.  For  dinner,  potatoes  and  cold  milk 
only.  On  Mondays,  when  Prue  had  to  make  a  fire  for 
the  washing,  two  pounds  of  cheap  meat  were  boiled, 
which  furnished  dinner  for  three  days. 

Bowles  had  no  trade.  He  was  what  was  called  in 
North  Leedom  "a  helper."  He  could  do  a  bit  of  car 
penter  or  mason  work,  or  paint  a  door,  or  plough  a 
field  when  called  upon,  for  which  he  received  a  few 
pennies.  There  was  no  opening  in.  the  dead  village 
for  any  regular  business.  It  was  out  of  these  occa 
sional  few  pennies  that  he  must  support  the  family 
and  save  the  thousand  dollars  for  the  mortgage. 

There  was  a  slight  quiver  on  the  boy's  cleft  chin  as 
he  sat  staring  at  the  mortgaged  house.  He  had  the 
eager  brain  and  fine  instincts  of  the  New  Englander. 
It  was  not  a  dull  beast  of  burden  on  whom  this  yoke 
for  life  was  to  be  laid,  but  a  nervous,  high-bred  ani 
mal,  fit  for  the  race-course. 

"  Ah-ha,  Bowles,  my  son ! "  a  subdued  voice  whis 
pered  over  the  fence. 

He  started  up.  It  was  Mr.  Rameaux,  an  agent  for 
some  orange  planters  in  Mississippi,  who  had  found 
boarding  for  his  little  daughter  in  North  Leedom  that 
summer,  while  he  travelled  about  the  country.  He 
was  so  short  and  stout  that  his  fat  smiling  face  barely 
reached  to  the  top  of  the  fence.  He  thrust  his  chubby 


98  SILHOUETTES   OF  AMERICAN  LIFE 

ringed  fingers  through,  the  rails  and  wrung  the  lad's 
hands. 

"  My  dear  boy,  I  came  down  from  Boston  this  after 
noon,  and  Lola  met  me  with  this  terrible  news. 
What  can  I  say?  Your  worthy  father!  11  est  cliez  le 
bon  Dieu  !  But  you  —  poor  child !  It  is  thirty  years 
since  my  own  father  left  me,  and  still  —  I  —  "  He 
choked,  and  real  tears  stood  in  the  twinkling  black 
eyes. 

Bowles  pulled  him  through  the  gate.  The  boy  said 
nothing.  He  had  not  shed  a  tear  when  his  father 
died.  He  had  never  learned  how  to  talk  or  to  shed 
tears.  But  this  little  man's  volubility,  his  gestures,  his 
juicy  rich  voice,  with  its  kindly  and  sweet  inflections, 
affected  Bowles  as  the  sudden  sight  of  tropical  plants 
might  a  half-frozen  Laplander.  He  had  hung  about 
Rameaux  all  summer  whenever  he  was  in  the  village. 

"  I  came  to  make  my  condolences  to  madame  votre 
mere.  And  Lola  —  she  also  "  —  dragging  after  him  a 
child  in  a  white  gown  and  huge  red  sash,  of  the  age 
when  girls  are  principally  made  up  of  eyes,  legs,  and 
curiosity. 

Together  they  entered  the  kitchen,  where  Mrs.  Pettit 
and  Prue  sat  knitting,  one  on  either  side  of  the  cold 
black  stove.  The  little  man  poured  forth  his  "  con 
dolences  "  to  the  widow.  Aaron's  virtues,  her  own 
grief,  the  joys  of  heaven,  the  love  of  le  bon  Dieu,  were 
all  jumbled  en  masse,  and  hurled  at  her  with  affection 
ate  zeal.  Prue  dropped  her  knitting  in  her  lap ;  a  red 
heat  rose  in  her  thin  cheeks  as  she  listened.  But  Mrs. 
Pettit 's  large  gray  eyes  scanned  the  pursy  little  agent 
with  cold  disapproval.  What  did  the  man  mean? 


AN  IGNOBLE  MARTYR  1)9 

Xone  of  Aaron's  neighbors,  not  she  herself,  had  wept 
for  him,  nor  talked  much  of  his  virtues,  or  his  entrance 
into  heaven.  Why  should  this  play-acting  fellow  be 
sorry  for  her?  She  resented  his  affectionate  tone,  his 
fat  body,  his  red  necktie,  the  unnecessary  width  of 
brim  of  his  felt  hat.  It  was  all  unnecessary,  redun 
dant  —  a  waste. 

She  waited  until  he  stopped  for  breath,  then  nodded 
without  a  word,  and  taking  up  her  knitting,  began  to 
count  the  stitches.  Kameaux,  shocked  and  discom 
fited,  stood  pulling  at  his  moustache  and  shuffling 
uneasily  from  one  foot  to  the  other.  Lola,  in  the 
mean  time,  had  crept  to  Prue's  side,  and  put  her  arm 
around  her  waist. 

The  Eaineaux  were  not  of  good  caste  in  Mississippi; 
they  were  by  no  means  well-bred  people.  The  agent's 
oaths  and  jokes,  when  alone  with  men,  were  not  always 
of  the  cleanest.  But  they  came  from  a  community 
where  men  carried  the  kindness  and  pity  of  their  hearts 
ready  for  constant  use  in  their  eyes  and  lips.  Even 
the  ungainly  child  now  was  giving  to  Prue  eager 
caresses  such  as  she  had  never  in  her  whole  life  re 
ceived  from  father  or  mother. 

"Your  father  is  dead,"  Lola  whispered.  "My 
mamma  died  two  —  two  years  —  "  and  then  she  burst 
into  sobs,  and  dropped  her  head  on  the  woman's  lap. 
Prue,  with  a  scared  glance  at  her  mother,  patted  her 
gently. 

"  Poor  lonely  little  thing !  "  she  thought.  Then  she 
noticed  that  the  child's  gaudy  sash  was  spotted  with 
grease,  and  that  the  holes  in  her  black  stockings  were 
drawn  up  with  white  thread.  "Tut!  tut!  poor  dear 


100  SILHOUETTES   OF  AMERICAN  LIFE 

child!  "  she  whispered,  a  motherly  throb  rising  in  her 
own  flat  breast. 

Mr.  Eameaux,  bewildered  at  his  rebuff,  was  turning 
to  the  door,  but  Bowles  stopped  him. 

"You  promised  to  speak  to  her/7  he  whispered, 
excitedly. 

"Not  now,  my  boy." 

"Yes,  now!     Now!" 

The  little  man  dropped  into  a  chair,  fanning  him 
self  with  his  ridiculous  hat.  He  too  was  excited. 
He  spoke  to  Mrs.  Pettit,  but  his  eyes  wandered  to 
Prue.  "Madam,  there  is  a  subject —  Your  son,  Mr. 
Bowles  here,  and  I  have  talked  of  it.  If  I  may  in 
trude  upon  your  grief  —  But  I  must  first  tell  you 
something  of  my  home." 

"Indeed?  Your  home,  Mr.  Rainmy,"  said  Mrs. 
Pettit,  in  her  dry,  shrill  tone,  "  is  the  least  of  my 
concerns."  Then  she  turned  her  back  on  him.  "Light 
the  candle,  Priscilla." 

Rameaux  rose,  red  and  angry. 

"Mother,"  said  Bowles,  sharply,  "I  wish  you  to 
listen  to  this  man." 

There  was  a  meaning  in  his  voice  new  to  her.  She 
stared  at  him,  and  at  the  agent,  who,  after  a  moment's 
hesitation,  went  on,  growing  fluent  as  an  auctioneer 
as  he  proceeded. 

"There  was  a  reason  for  speaking  of  Lamonte  to 
you,  madam.  It  is  a  village  near  the  gulf.  That  is 
a  rich  country  —  the  ground,  fat,  black;  the  trees, 
giants ;  the  woods  full  of  birds,  and  the  waters  of  fish. 
A  man  has  but  to  set  his  traps  and  drop  his  lines  and 
lie  down  to  sleep,  and  nature  feeds  him.  And  the 


AN  IGNOBLE  MARTYR  101 

air  —  so  warm  and  sweet!"  He  took  a  step  nearer 
to  True,  who  was  listening.  His  eyes  were  on  hers. 
They  were  kind  eyes,  he  thought  —  mother's  eyes. 
Miss  Prne  had  a  soft  voice  too.  Her  cheeks  were 
lean,  bnt  there  was  a  pretty  color  coming  and  going 
in  them,  and  the  lips  were  red  and  kissable.  He  and 
Lola  had  a  lonely  life  of  it.  "The  air,"  he  repeated, 
awkward  and  bewildered,  "is  sweet  with  flowers. 
You  would  like  my  house,  Miss  Prue,  on  the  beach. 
At  night  the  wind  in  the  magnolias  and  the  waves 
plashing  on  the  shore  make  a  very  pleasant  sound  — 
a  —  very  pleasant  sound."  Pie  quite  broke  down 
here,  but  his  little  black  eyes  held  hers,  and  it  seemed 
to  her  that  he  was  still  talking  rapidly,  passionately 
saying  something  that  she  never  had  listened  to  be 
fore. 

"You  told  me  about  the  place  before,  Mr.  Rainmy," 
she  stammered.  "  You  said  that  the  flowers  — 

"Hola!  chut!  I  had  forgotten!  "  he  exclaimed,  tug 
ging  at  his  pocket.  "  I  sent  for  these.  They  came 
to-day.  You  said  you  never  had  seen  any."  He 
pulled  out  a  small  paper  box.  When  she  opened  it,  a 
strange  and  wonderful  fragrance  startled  the  chill 
New  England  air. 

"  Orange  blossoms !  "  explained  Rameaux,  with  a 
significant  chuckle. 

Prue  said  nothing.  She  took  her  box  to  the  win 
dow.  The  blood  grew  cold  in  all  of  her  gaunt  body. 
What  did  it  mean? 

She  had  scarcely  ever  thought  of  love.  She  had 
known  but  two  women  of  her  age  in  the  village  who 
had  been  courted  and  married.  The  others  had  all 


1C2  SILHOUETTES   OF  AMERICAN  LIFE 

grown  into  old  maids  like  herself.  She  never  had 
thought  that  she —  He  hud  paid  thirty  cents  postage 
on  that  box!  And  for  her! 

That  wonderful  life  dovrn  there  —  little  work,  and 
plenty  to  eat!  —  the  warm,  sweet  air!  the  plashing 
waves!  In  the  mean  time,  the  strange,  creamy 
flowers,  with  their  heavy  fragrance,  seemed  actually 
to  talk  to  her  of  this  life  and  this  man. 

What  was  that  he  was  saying?  Urging  her  mother 
to  sell  the  house  and  go  to  Lamonte,  where  there  was 
a  fine  chance  for  Bowles ! 

"There  is  no  opening  for  the  boy  here,  madam,"  he 
persisted.  "I  speak  as  a  business  man.  Lamonte  is 
a  live  place.  I  go  to  start  a  cypress-wood  mill,  a 
cotton-seed-oil  factory.  It  is  a  boom.  A  young  man 
with  Northern  energy  shall  make  money  fast.  Or,  if 
you  will  not  sell  the  homestead,  why  not  rent  it? 
Bowles,  once  settled  in  Lamonte,  in  two  years  —  in 
two  months  perhaps,  if  this  boom  lasted  —  could  clear 
off  the  mortgage."  Rameaux  spoke  as  he  did  when 
driving  a  bargain  —  clearly,  and  to  the  point.  "I 
will  give  you  this  to  consider,"  he  said.  " I  will  state 
the  matter  now  to  Miss  Prue  from  another  point  of 
the  view."  He  strode  quickly  across  to  her,  and  led 
her  authoritatively  out  of  the  kitchen. 

"Mother,  do  you  understand?"  said  Bowles,  in  a 
high,  sharp  tone.  "I  can  make  money  there  hand 
over  hand.  I  will  clear  off  the  mortgage  dretful  fast. 
I  won't  have  to  drudge  here  like  a  nigger  slave  till 
I'm  as  old  as  father." 

The  face  which  Mrs.  Pettit  turned  on  him  was  set 
and  strained  as  it  had  not  been  when  she  looked  at 
her  husband  dead. 


Ay  IGNOBLE  MARTYR  103 

"  You  want  to  —  go  ?  "  she  said. 

"Yes,  I  want  to  go.  I  must  get  out  of  hero.  I. 
want  enough  to  do;  I  want  enough  to  eat!  " 

She  looked  at  the  hunger-bitten  face  and  starving 
eyes  of  the  boy,  a  tragic  sight  enough  if  she  had  under 
stood  it.  But  she  was  simply  bewildered.  Most  of 
the  people  in  North  Leedom  had  that  clayey  color  and 
restless  look  which  result  from  an  ill-fed  body  and 
a  strong  brain  condemned  for  life  to  work  upon  trifles. 
But  they  did  not  know  what  ailed  them.  Nor  did 
Mrs.  Pettit. 

"AYant  to  leave  North  Leedom?"  she  repeated, 
with  a  contemptuous  laugh.  "Sech.  fancies!  You 
always  was  ridickelous,  Bowles,  but  I  didn't  think 
you  was  quite  sech  a  fool.  Draw  some  water,  child. 
It's  high  time  we  was  lockin'  up  an'  makin'  ready 
for  bed,"  looking  at  Lola,  who  was  coiled  up  on  a 
chair,  her  big  black  eyes  curiously  turning  from  one 
to  the  other. 

The  door  into  the  yard  opened,  and  Prue  came 
hurrying  in.  Her  mother  stared  at  her.  She  had 
never  seen  her  face  burn  nor  her  eyes  shine  in  that 
way,  except  when  she  had  the  typhoid  fever  twelve 
years  ago. 

"Lola,"  she  said,  going  up  to  the  girl  and  catching 
her  by  the  shoulders  —  "  Lola!  " 

"  Yes, "  said  Lola,  standing  up. 

Miss  Prue  pulled  the  child  toward  her  as  if  to  kiss 
her.  Her  thin  face  worked;  she  panted  for  breath. 
She  caught  sight  of  her  mother's  amazed  face,  and 
pushed  Lola  away. 

"Your  —  your  papa  wants  you,  dear,"  she  said,  in 


104  SILHOUETTES   OF  AMERICAN  LIFE 

a  low  whisper,  every  tone  of  which  was  a  caress. 
"I'll  take  you  to  him." 

"  You  stop  right  here,  Priscilla.  Bowles  can  take 
his  daater  to  the  play-actor,"  snapped  Mrs.  Pettit. 

Priscilla  dared  not  disobey.  She  was  thirty,  but 
she  was  as  submissive  and  timid  as  when  she  was  six. 
But  she  did  follow  Lola  out  on  to  the  porch.  The  girl 
stopped  her  there  peremptorily,  and  stretching  up  on 
her  tiptoes,  threw  her  arms  around  her  neck. 

"You're  coining  home  with  us?  Papa  said  so. 
Yes?  Oh,  goody!  You'll  come?" 

"Hush-h!" 

Priscilla  dropped  on  her  knees  in  the  dark,  and 
strained  the  child  tight  to  her  breast.  The  blood 
burned  hotly  through  her  whole  body  as  she  pressed 
a  light  shamed  kiss  upon  her  lips,  and  then  springing 
up,  ran  back  into  the  kitchen. 

Bowles  walked  sulkily  with  Lola  down  to  the  road 
where  her  father  was  waiting.  She  thrust  her  arm  in 
his  and  hung  on  it;  she  rolled  her  beautiful  eyes 
coquettishly ;  she  spoke  to  him  with  profound  awe 
and  timidity.  Lola,  like  many  Southern  girls  of  her 
class,  had  given  much  of  her  short  life  to  thought  of 
"the  boys,"  and  of  how  to  manage  them.  She  man 
aged  Bowles  now  completely.  Her  homage  thrilled 
him  with  triumph  and  self-conceit,  which  her  father's 
eager  talk  increased.  His  mother  treated  him  as  a 
child.  These  people  appreciated  him,  recognized  him 
as  the  shrewd  Northern  man  who  would  make  money 
hand  over  hand  in  the  South.  He  laughed  loudly 
with  Kameaux,  even  tried  to  joke  a  little. 

His  sister,  through  the  kitchen  window,  saw  them 


AN  IGNOBLE  MARTYR  105 

standing  by  the  gate.  The  moon  had  risen.  Lola 
leaned  sleepily  against  the  fence.  Eameanx's  sultry 
black  eyes,  while  he  talked  to  Bowles,  searched  every 
window  in  the  house. 

"Forme?" 

Priscilla's  knees  shook  under  her.  She  hurried 
to  her  mother,  who  was  beginning  to  grope  her  way 
up  the  stairs,  and  took  the  candle  from  her,  trembling 
so  that  she  could  scarcely  speak.  It  seemed  as  if  she 
must  cry  and  laugh  out  loud. 

"  Mr.  Rameaux  tells  me  that  his  house  is  all  on  one 
floor.  You  will  have  no  stairs  to  climb  if  you  go 
there,  mother,"  she  said. 

Mrs.  Pettit  stared  at  her.  "/  go?  Bowles's  brain 
is  addled  enough,  but  he's  not  so  mad  as  that." 

She  had  reached  her  room  by  this  time.  Prue  hur 
ried  in  after  her. 

"Mother,  it's  not  Bowles;  it's  me.  If  there  w^as  a 
chance  for  me  to  go  down  yonder  and  give  you  a  com 
fortable  providing  would  you  go?" 

Mrs.  Pettit  paid  no  attention  to  her.  She  was 
unbuttoning  her  shoes,  and  had  found  a  thin  place  in 
one  of  them.  She  rubbed  it  with  alarm,  held  it  close 
to  her  purblind  eyes,  set  it  down  with  a  groan.  "  It 
ought  to  hev  lasted  two  year  more,"  she  muttered. 

"Would you  go?"  said  Prue,  stooping  over  her  with 
a  breathless  gasp.  "  You  should  have  as  many  shoes 
as  you  chose,  and  the  hot  air  even  in  winter,  and 
full  and  plenty  to  eat  and  wear." 

Mrs.  Pettit  turned  her  dull  calm  face  on  her.  "  Why, 
Priscilla  Pettit!  You've  been  listenin'  to  that  Ram- 
my's  crazy  talk  too!  For  a  fool,  give  me  an  old 


106  SILHOUETTES   OF  AMERICAN  LIFE 

maid!  "  She  took  up  the  worn  shoe  anxiously  again. 
"Think  of  me  goin' outside  of  North  Leedom!"  she 
said,  with  a  hoarse,  rasping  laugh. 

Priscilla,  as  she  looked  at  her,  could  not  think  of 
it.  It  was  an  impossibility ;  as  impossible  as  to  make 
the  dead  alive. 

"  Tut !  tut !    It's  worn  near  through  to  the  counter." 

"Give  it  to  me.     I'll  mend  it,"  said  Miss  Prue. 

"Your  hands  are  like  ice,"  said  her  mother,  as  she 
took  the  shoe.  "You'd  better  get  to  bed.  There's 
that  lot  of  coats  to  begin  on  in  the  morning.  You'll 
have  to  be  up  by  four." 

"Yes,"  said  Prue.  She  carried  the  shoe  down 
stairs.  The  coats  lay  in  heaps  in.  the  corner,  tied 
together  by  twine.  Their  raw  edges  stuck  out.  Prue 
thought  they  would  not  have  been  so  hateful  if  it  had 
not  been  for  those  raw  edges. 

Bowles  was  waiting  for  her.  His  eyes  shone;  he 
looked  bigger  and  stouter  than  before ;  the  very  down 
on  his  lip  seemed  coarser  and  browner. 

"You  are  going  too,"  he  said.  "Kameaux  told  me. 
Lord !  such  luck  to  come  to  us !  " 

"Mother  will  never  go,  Bowles." 

"  Then  leave  her.  Other  sons  and  daughters  marry 
and  go  away.  Cousin  Sarah  can  take  care  of  her. 
We'll  pay  the  mortgage,  and  pay  Sarah  for  tendin' 
her.  Mother's  rugged.  She  may  live  twenty  year 
yet.  ;Tisn't  fair  you  should  slave  forever." 

He  said  much  more,  but  Prue  scarcely  heard  him. 
She  sat  in  the  kitchen  without  moving  long  after 
he  had  gone  to  bed.  Somehow  the  raw-edged  seer 
sucker  coats  seemed  to  fill  up  her  mind,  and  to  bulk 


AN  IGNOBLE  MARTYR  107 

down,  down,  through  her  whole  life.  Eameaux  had 
pointed  to  them  angrily  last  night,  and  said,  "  Send 
that  trash  back  to-morrow." 

He  wanted  her  to  marry  him  to-morrow;  to  pack 
up  their  things,  and  start  for  Lamonte  next  Monday. 
He  would  stop  in  New  York  to  buy  her  some  gowns 
to  please  his  own  taste.  "A  red  silk  gown  and  a 
black-plumed  hat." 

"  Think  of  me  in  red  silk  and  plumes ! "  thought 
Priscilla,  tears  of  sheer  delight  standing  in  her  eyes. 

Her  mother  coughed  hard,  and  called  to  her  several 
times,  while  she  sat  there,  to  bring  her  medicine. 
She  always  needed  care  in  the  night.  Cousin  Sarah 
was  a  high-tempered  woman  and  slept  heavily. 


When  Bowles  came  down  in  the  morning,  he  found 
his  slice  of  leaden  pie  and  greasy  doughnut,  as  usual, 
on  a  plate  on  the  bare  table.  1'rue  was  at  the  ma 
chine,  a  heap  of  finished  seersucker  coats  beside  her. 

"I  guess  you  were  at  work  all  night?"  he  said. 

"I  couldn't  sleep,"  she  answered. 

"Are  you  goin'  to  finish  all  them  things?" 

She  nodded,  turning  her  wheel  faster. 

He  looked  at  her  face  for  a  minute  or  two,  and  then, 
for  some  reason,  walked  behind  her,  where  he  could 
not  see  it.  "Prue,"  he  said,  "are  you  always  goin' 
on  nuikiii'  coats?" 

The  wheel  stopped, ..  the  thread  broke.  Bowles 
waited,  silent. 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  in  a  low  voice.  Then  she  threaded 
her  needle  again. 


108  SILHOUETTES   OF  AMERICAN  LIFE 

"What  else  should  she  do?"  said  Mrs.  Pettit,  com 
ing  into  the  kitchen. 

Neither  of  her  children  answered  her;  but  presently 
Prue  got  up  suddenly,  and  going  to  her,  gave  her  a 
fond  hug  and  kiss. 

Mrs.  Pettit  started,  amazed.  It  was  a  new  thing 
in  her  life;  but,  on  the  whole,  she  liked  it. 

Ten  days  later  Bowles  left  North  Leedom  for  Mis 
sissippi.  His  hopes  were  more  than  answered  there. 
Lamonte  did  have  the  promised  boom,  and  he  made 
money  fast.  In  a  few  years  he  married  Lola.  But 
long  before  that  time  he  paid  off  the  mortgage.  He 
did  it  for  Prue's  sake.  Had  not  his  life  been  success 
ful,  while  hers  was  a  miserable  failure?  His  heart 
ached  with  pity  for  her. 

But  we  are  not  sure  that  her  life  was  at  all  miser 
able.  From  that  night  in  which  she  made  her  choice, 
a  singular  change  came  over  her.  For  thirty  years 
she  had  done  her  dull  duty  faithfully,  because,  in 
iact,  there  was  nothing  else  to  do. 

Then,  as  it  seemed  to  her,  the  gates  were  opened, 
the  kingdoms  of  the  world  were  laid  at  her  feet. 

Of  her  own  will  she  had  given  them  up. 

God  only  knew  what  the  sacrifice  cost  her,  but  after 
it  she  was  a  different  and  a  live  creature.  She  was 
like  a  woman  who  has  given  birth  to  a  child.  She 
had  struck  her  note  in  life,  and  it  was  not  a  mean  one. 
She  now  looked  out  on  the  world  with  authoritative, 
understanding  eyes;  even  her  step  became  firm  and 
decided. 

When  one  climbs  a  height,  the  pure  air  expands  the 
lungs  ever  after.  We  always  carry  with  us  down  in 


AN  IGNOBLE  MARTYR  109 

the  valley  the  wide  outlook  which  we  have  seen  but 
once. 

True  had  now  a  life  quite  outside  of  North  Leedom 
and  the  raw-edged  coats.  When  the  pain  and  sore 
ness  had  passed,  her  struggle  began  to  exert  pleasant 
and  tender  influences  on  her.  Stout,  jolly  Ixameaux, 
with  his  twinkling  black  eyes  and  black  moustache, 
began  to  take  on  the  graces  and  charms  of  all  the 
heroes  of  romance.  When  she  read  in  the  magazines 
a  poem  or  love  story,  her  eyes  would  fill  with  a  tender 
light,  and  she  would  whisper,  "  I,  too  5  I,  too !  " 

When  she  saw  mothers  caress  their  children,  she 
fancied  she  felt  Lola's  head  again  on  her  breast,  and 
her  heart  throbbed  with  happiness. 

After  her  mother  died,  she  tried  to  bring  into  her 
life  some  of  the  things  of  which  Bowles  had  told  her 
of  his  home  in  Lamonte.  She  planted  roses  in  the 
yard;  she  covered  her  table  with  a  white  cloth;  and 
sometimes  a  bit  of  savory  meat  found  its  way  to  it. 
She  visited  her  neighbors;  she  read  novels;  she  joked 
in  a  scared  way. 

On  the  occasion  of  her  one  visit  to  New  Bedford 
she  went  alone  to  a  retail  shop,  and,  blushing,  asked 
to  be  shown  some  crimson  silk  and  black-plumed  hats. 
She  fingered  them  wistfully. 

"Are  they  for  a  young  lady?"  asked  the  shop 
man. 

"Yes — for  a  young  lady,"  said  Prue,  in  a  low 
voice.  She  held  them  a  moment  longer,  and  then, 
with  a  sigh,  went  out. 

Soon  after  this,  Bowles,  who  was  a  bad  correspon 
dent,  suddenly  appeared  one  day,  bringing  one  of  his 


110  SILHOUETTES  OF  AMERICAN  LIFE 

girls,  Prissy,  with  him.  "Yes,  she  looks  peaked,"  he 
said  that  night  as  they  sat  on  the  porch,  after  Prue 
had  lovingly  put  the  child  to  sleep  in  her  own  bed. 
"  The  doctor  said  she  ought  to  have  bracing  air  for  a 
year  or  two.  I  told  him  I'd  bring  her  to  you.  We've 
got  four,  and  she's  your  namesake.  She  does  not  look 
like  the  Pettits,  though." 

"Her  eyes  are  like  Lola's  father's,"  said  Prue, 
hesitating.  "  Is  Mr.  Kameaux  well?  " 

"  God  bless  me !  Didn't  I  tell  you  the  old  gentle 
man  was  gone?  Died  in  Cuba  last  spring." 

"Died  — last  spring?" 

Bowles,  who  was  about  to  add  that  too  much  bad 
whiskey  had  hastened  his  end,  caught  sight  of  her 
face,  and  with  a  sudden  remembrance  stopped  short, 
and  softly  whistled  to  himself. 

"Yes,  in  Cuba,"  he  said,  awkwardly.  "Well,  Prue, 
I  wras  all  right  in  bringing  Prissy  to  you?  You'll 
take  care  of  the  chick?  " 

"As  if  she  were  my  own,"  she  said.  "I  thank  you, 
Bowles." 

Soon  afterward  she  went  to  her  own  room,  and 
kneeling  by  the  bed,  kissed  the  child's  face  and  hands 
passionately. 

"She  is  very  like  him,"  she  thought,  opening,  as 
she  did  every  night,  a  little  box  in  which  were  some 
yellow  flowers.  She  fancied  there  was  still  a  faint 
fragrance  breathing  from  them.  "  We  will  know  each 
other  in  heaven,"  she  said,  with  a  sigh,  as  she  closed 
the  box. 

But  it  may  be  as  well,  perhaps,  that  in  this  too  she 
will  be  disappointed. 


ACROSS   THE   GULF. 


THE  Keverend  William  Imlay  found  a  seat  for  his 
mother  in  the  Desbrosses  Street  ferry-boat  and 
placed  her  neat  satchel  and  umbrella  beside  her.     "  I 
think,"  he  said,  "I  will  go  forward  into  the  fresh  air 
at  the  bow." 

"Take  care  of  the  draughts,  William." 
He  folded  his  big  yellow  silk  neckerchief  more 
closely  about  his  throat,  lifted  his  hat,  and  left  her. 
The  other  women  were  bothering  their  escorts  as  to 
the  chances  of  catching  the  train  for  Philadelphia, 
but  Mrs.  Imlay  was  calm.  Neither  she  nor  William 
had  ever  been  late  for  a  train  or  a  meal :  a  glance  at 
her  would  tell  you  that.  Smooth  gray  hair,  inquisi 
tive  black  eyes,  close-fitting  black  travelling-dress, 
white  cuffs,  jet  brooch  and  buttons,  —  there  she  was,  a 
neat,  compact  package  of  fulfilled  duties.  She  would 
be  smiling,  efficient,  and  confident  by  a  sick-bed,  or 
in  her  pantry,  or  leading  a  prayer-meeting;  and  you 
could  not  but  fancy  that  if  Death  tapped  at  the  little 
lady's  door  the  call  would  not  flurry  her  at  all,  as  it 
does  disorderly  people,  but  would  fit  nicely  into  her 
methodic  life,  and  she  would  trip  on  into  heaven  still 
smiling,  efficient,  and  confident. 

Ill 


112  SILHOUETTES   OF  AMERICAN  LIFE 

Mr.  Imlay  came  back  presently,  a  faint  curiosity 
kindling  his  handsome  features :  "  Mother,  the  famous 
actress  is  onboard, — Mile.  Clemence.  That  is  she, 
coming  this  way.  I  thought  you  would  like  to  see 
her." 

"So  I  should,  William,"  hastily  putting  on  her 
spectacles.  "The  tall  woman  in  the  seal-skin  ulster? 
Dear!  dear!  That  ulster  would  cost  as  much  as  your 
salary  for  two  years !  Satan's  wages  are  high  nowa 
days." 

"Yes." 

"Poor  thing!  poor  thing!"  said  his  mother.  This 
was  one  of  the  women,  she  thought,  of  whom  Solomon 
wrote,  who  stand  in  wait  to  drag  men  down  into  hell. 
Still,  she  could  not  forget  that  she  was  a  woman  and 
when  a  child  had  perhaps  been  innocent. 

"She  is  very  handsome,"  said  Mr.  Imlay.  His 
mother  moved  uneasily.  Of  course,  she  saw  the 
creature's  beauty;  but  she  ought  to  have  been  nothing 
to  William  but  a  lost  soul.  "  Something  in  her  fea 
tures  reminds  me  of  Miss  Lowry,"  he  said,  deliber 
ately  bridging  his  nose  with  his  eye-glasses. 

"  Oh,  William!  Clara  Lowry  is  one  of  the  loveliest 
of  Christian  characters!  And  yet —  Eeally,  there 
is  something  about  the  chin —  For  pity's  sake,  never 
tell  Clara  of  it!" 

"Of  course  not." 

The  boat  thumped  into  the  pier,  and  the  crowd 
poured  through  the  station  into  the  waiting  train. 
Mrs.  Imlay,  on  her  son's  arm,  peered  curiously  about 
for  the  seal-skin  ulster.  The  sight  of  this  woman  had 
strangely  fluttered  her.  It  was  a  glimpse  into  that 


ACROSS   THE  GULF  113 

brilliant  wicked  hell  below  the  decorous  world  in 
which  she  lived,  to  which  pertained  all  of  Satan's 
doings, — cards,  fashion,  dancing,  and,  above  all, 
theatres.  "Where  did  she  go,  William?"  she  asked, 
as  he  seated  her  in  a  car. 

"  Into  a  parlor-car  behind.  There  were  two  or  three 
gentlemen  with  her.  Leading  people.  Congressmen." 

"Oh,  I  suppose  so,"  with  a  shudder.  "Sit  down, 
dear.  Well,  I'm  really  glad  to  have  seen  her.  One 
ought  to  be  reminded  that  there  are  such  depths,  here, 
just  about  us.  I  do  wonder  what  she  was  thinking  of 
then?  "  It  was  the  very  question  she  had  asked  about 
the  sea-lion  in  the  Park  yesterday. 

"  She  made  a  very  pretty  picture,  at  any  rate, "  said 
Mr.  Imlay.  "Remarkably  good  nose." 

"You  think  a  great  deal  too  much  of  her  nose.  I 
mean  —  I  beg  your  pardon,  my  dear.  But  one  hardly 
expects  a  clergyman  to  regard  such  creatures  from  the 
stand-point  of  their  noses." 

Mr.  Imlay  lifted  his  brow  with  mild  complacency. 
"  They  are  entirely  outside  of  our  world,"  he  explained. 
"A  person  in  my  position  must  either  try  to  convert 
them  or  else  simply  regard  them  aesthetically  as  part 
of  the  world's  furniture.  I  could  not  convert  Mile. 
Clemence  on  the  boat,  so  I  regard  her  quite  as  I  would 
a  tree  or  a  bit  of  china.  I  approve  their  shape  or 
color,  and  I  approve  her  nose.  Do  I  make  myself 
clear?" 

"Oh,  quite, — quite  so,  William,"  hastily  rejoined 
Mrs.  Imlay  as  soon  as  the  gentle  dogmatic  ripple 
stopped.  She  had  not  heard  him:  she  was  always 
sure  William  would  say  the  right  thing.  She  was 


114  SILHOUETTES   OF  AMERICAN  LIFE 

counting  the  cost  of  that  dress,  — ulster,  gold-mounted 
satchel  —  why,  the  boots,  even,  could  not  be  bought 
under  twenty  dollars !  What  would  Clara  Lowry  say 
when  told  about  it?  "I  always  gain  new  ideas  when  I 
leave  home,  William,"  she  said.  "Travel  is  so  —  so 
broadening." 

"  I  wish  you  would  go  of tener  with  me,  mother, "  he 
replied,  affectionately  wrapping  her  shawl  about  her 
and  rising.  "  Now,  if  you  will  excuse  me,  I  will  go 
and  look  for  Mr.  Fordyce;  he  is  somewhere  on  the 
train." 

Mr.  Imlay  could  not  find  his  fellow-minister,  but  he 
sat  down  in  a  rear  car.  He  wished  to  think  over  his 
sermon,  for  it  would  be  late  before  he  reached  Balti 
more.  He  smiled  to  himself  again  at  his  mother's 
idea  of  travel.  A  trip  to  New  York !  She  was  shut 
in  too  much  to  her  little  round ;  church,  the  sewing- 
circle,  Ann  the  cook,  —  there  was  her  world. 

Mr.  Imlay  had  gone  twice  to  the  great  Church  Con 
ventions  ;  he  had  been  as  far  south  as  Louisville,  and 
as  far  west  as  Chicago :  so  that  he  could  justly  claim 
to  know  something  of  the  world  and  of  life.  He 
wanted  to  know  more.  His  own  mild  dogmatizing, 
his  mother's  amiable  gossip,  the  squabbles  between 
the  choir  and  congregation,  even  the  discussion  about 
the  new  organ,  grew  stale  and  cramping  to  him.  If 
he  could  get  outside,  into  the  creeds,  the  unbelief, 
the  passions,  the  action,  out  there,  he  fancied  he 
could  understand  Christ  and  His  errand  better. 
Still,  there  wTas  great  peril  in  such  ventures.  As 
now,  for  instance,  when  he  buttoned  up  his  coat  to 
hide  his  white  cravat  and  began  to  talk  to  a  gentle- 


ACROSS   THE  GULF  115 

man  in  a  mulberry  velveteen  waistcoat  about  beet- 
sugar,  he  felt  that  he  was  boldly  treading  on  danger 
ous  ground.  To  hide  the  cravat,  to  give  up  the  pre 
cedence  of  his  holy  calling,  to  talk  as  one  ordinary 
man  with  another,  —  was  not  this  compounding  with 
Mammon? 

But  he  soon  became  keenly  interested  in  his  beet- 
sugar  friend  and  his  companions.  He  gathered  that 
they  were  a  family  or  party  of  friends  on  their  way 
to  celebrate  somebody's  birthday.  All  of  them,  even 
to  the  grandmother,  had  the  air  of  happy  folk  out  on 
a  frolic.  There  were  a  couple  of  lads  who  swaggered 
like  old  sportsmen,  though  neither  blood  nor  powder 
had  ever  soiled  their  guns  or  embroidered  game-bags. 
There  were  young  girls  with  rosy  faces  under  furry 
caps,  chattering  and  giggling,  peeping  at  each  other's 
skates.  There  was  a  dumpling  of  a  baby,  which  the 
nurse  carried  about  perpetually  from  one  set  of  cousins 
to  another.  There  was  a  white- whiskered  old  gentle 
man  on  the  next  seat  to  him,  who  scolded  because  the 
stove-door  was  shut,  or  because  the  ventilators  were 
open,  or  because  the  banana-boy  dropped  books  on 
his  knee.  Mr.  Imlay  could  not  at  first  understand  the 
patience  of  the  whole  party  toward  this  disagreeable 
old  fellow :  they  were  as  gentle  with  him  as  with  the 
baby;  but  presently  he  saw  that  he  was  blind. 

He  finally  turned  his  ill-humor  on  Mr.  Imlay's  com 
panion.  "Beet-sugar  now,  Sperry?"  he  snapped. 
"Last  year  it  was  tea-plants;  and  the  year  before, 
silkworms.  If  it  was  only  your  own  money  that  was 
wasted,  less  matter.  But  you  must  always  have 
somebody  to  ride  your  hobbies.  Here's  Mrs.  Finn, 


V 

116  SILHOUETTES  OF  AMERICAN  LIFE 

now !  To  my  knowledge,  she  gave  up  two  acres  once 
to  your  tea-plants." 

A  little  woman  wearing  black  and  a  widow's  cap 
looked  up  and  laughed:  "And,  to  my  knowledge, 
Uncle  Shannon,  many  a  cup  of  tea  you  had  from  them." 

'•Poor  stuff,  Emily,  poor  stuff!  You're  a  shrewd 
farmer;  but  you'll  never  make  tea  pay.  Nor  any  of 
John  Sperry's  whims.  Mushrooms!  That  was  another 
craze  of  his." 

Mr.  Sperry  patted  the  old  man  on  the  back,  and 
winked  apologetically  to  Mr.  Imlay  as  for  an  ill-man 
nered  child:  "Yes,  mushrooms.  There's  no  better 
paying  crop.  I  set  Frazier  at  them  in  San  Diego,  and 
Cobb  in  Honolulu,  and  old  Eice  in  Australia.  I  may 
say  I  have  girdled  the  earth  with  mushrooms."  Then, 
in  a  deprecating  whisper  to  the  clergyman:  "One  of 
the  best-tempered  men  alive  until  — "  touching  his 
own  eyes  significantly.  Mr.  Imlay  nodded,  smiled, 
and  rose  to  go  with  a  regretful  glance  about  the  car. 
How  many  good  Christian  people  there  were  in  the 
world  to  whom  one  must  give  a  touch  and  go-by ! 

When  he  reached  the  door  only  the  engine  was  in 
front  of  him.  The  rest  of  the  cars,  and  his  mother  in 
them,  had  vanished. 

"Just  divided  the  train  at  Newark,"  curtly  ex 
plained  the  conductor.  "Other  section's  twenty  min 
utes  ahead." 

"But  I  have  a  lady  in  my  charge." 

"Can't  help  that,  sir.  You  ought  to  have  looked 
out  for  the  lady." 

Mr.  Imlay  stared  at  the  man,  opened  his  mouth 
irresolutely,  and  feebly  pulled  at  his  whiskers. 


ACROSS   THE  GULF  117 

"What  is  it?  what  is  it?"  cried  the  blind  man. 
"Some  new  trick  of  that  infernal  corporation?'7 

Mr.  Sperry  came  up,  pulling  down  his  waistcoat  with 
a  business  air,  and  suggested  a  telegram;  the  girls 
looked  sympathetic;  Mrs.  Finn  timidly  ventured  an 
anxious  word  or  two. 

"It's  really  of  no  consequence,"  said  Mr.  Imlay 
with  awkward  dignity.  "  My  mother  has  her  ticket 
and  check."  But  secretly  he  was  greatly  pleased. 
He  had  suddenly  become  of  importance.  By  virtue 
of  his  misfortune,  he  was  adopted  by  this  demon 
strative  family  as  one  of  themselves. 

While  he  talked  to  the  conductor  his  seat  had  been 
taken  by  a  boy  and  a  tall,  distinguished-looking  girl. 
The  blind  man  put  his  hand  on  her  head:  "Is  this 
you,  Janey?  Did  you  get  on  at  Newark?  Why  don't 
you  make  room  for  me?" 

"I'll  go  in  the  smoking-car,"  the  boy  said,  jumping 
up. 

"]STo,  Bob.  You'll  stay  just  here."  The  young 
lady  drew  her  father  into  the  seat,  and  took  Bob  on 
her  lap,  looking  laughingly  into  his  eyes  as  with  her 
firm  white  fingers  she  poked  a  cigar  out  of  his  pocket. 

Bob  chuckled  sheepishly,  but  soon  recovered  him 
self:  "Father,  I'm  going  to  take  Janey  out  rabbit- 
hunting  to-morrow.  I'll  lend  her  my  boots  for  the 
deep  snow." 

Mr.  Shannon  gave  an  impatient  grunt :  "  Your  sister 
will  have  no  time  for  such  capers,  sir.  All  my  clothes 
need  mending."  He  settled  himself  with  his  head  on 
her  shoulder  and  was  soon  asleep,  while  Bob  sat,  gig 
gling  and  scowling,  on  her  knees. 


118  SILHOUETTES   OF  AMERICAN  LIFE 

Sperry  saw  that  Mr.  Imlay  was  watching  the  group. 
"Pitiful  sight,  sir,"  he  whispered.  "D'ye  know  that 
since  Mr.  Shannon  lost  his  sight  that  girl  has  sup 
ported  both  him  and  the  boy?  Carries  them  both 
right  along.  They're  helpless  as  two  babies." 

"How  does  she  do  it?     She  is  very  young." 

"Earns  barely  ten  dollars  a  week.  She's  with 
Kneedles.  His  plan  is,  work  your  people  to  death 
like  cart-horses  and  fling  the  carcasses  out.  Oh,  I 
suppose  everybody's  heard  of  Dan  Kneedles?  We're 
all  going  to  Mrs.  Finn's  farm  to  celebrate  her  birth 
day,  and  I  wrote  to  Dan  to  beg  Janey  for  a  day  or  two. 
Well,  sir,  I  had  to  pay  him  her  full  week's  salary! 
But  she  knows  nothing  of  that." 

Kneedles?  Mr.  Imlay  had  a  feminine  relish  for 
gossip.  Was  there  not  a  Kneedles  female  college 
near  Newark?  The  young  lady  was  dressed  like  an 
ill-paid  teacher.  She  coughed,  too,  now  and  then, 
and  had  a  hectic  flush;  but  there  was  something  stead 
fast  and  durable  about  her,  from  the  firm  wrist  which, 
held  Bob  quiet,  to  the  dark,  slow-moving  eyes. 

While  he  was  looking  at  her,  there  was  a  rasping 
crash:  girl,  old  man,  seats,  roof,  tilted,  disappeared. 
Mr.  Imlay  clutched  wildly  at  Sperry,  missed  him,  and 
was  hurled  forward.  When  he  came  to  his  senses  he 
was  in  absolute  darkness,  his  right  leg  clinched 
tightly;  beside  him  he  felt  broken  planks  and  some 
thing  soft  and  movable  like  a  human  body.  A  wind 
of  heat  blew  over  his  leg.  The  train  had  fallen  from 
a  trestle  bridge,  and  he  was  fastened  in  a  car  that  was 
on  fire.  He  had  read  of  people  fastened  in  just  that 
way.  They  had  been  roasted  to  death.  "  Great  God! 


AC  It  OSS   THE  GULF 


119 


This  thing  is  happening  to  me!  J/e/"  thought  Mr. 
Imlay.  He  had  been  so  coddled  and  petted  by  his 
mother  from  the  days  of  his  swaddling-clothes  up  into 
his  clerical  coat  and  necktie,  that  blank  amazement 
was  his  principal  emotion  at  finding  himself  in  a  ditch 
of  mud  to  the  chin,  with  a  fire  close  to  his  legs.  At 
a  distance  011  the  snowy  field,  he  saw  black  figures 
moving;  he  heard  shouts  and  cries.  He  shouted,  but 
his  voice  piped  thin  like  a  woman's.  The  body  beside 

him whether  man's  or  woman's  he  did  not  know- 

struggled. 

"Are  they  coming  to  us?"  said  a  voice  sounding 
oddly  calm  to  his  frenzy.  He  replied  only  by  fresh 
shrieks.  "Oh,  they'll  come,"  cheerfully.  "I  saw 
Bob  help  father  out.  They'll  come  back  for  me." 

It  was  the  teacher,  then?  He  did  not  care  who  it 
was.  He  shrieked  on.  "  The  fire  is  gaining,"  he  said 
at  last,  exhausted,  "and  my  leg  is  wedged  in  tight." 

She  began  to  tug  wildly  at  the  leg :  it  did  not  stir. 
Then  steps  came  near,  and  a  dozen  men  crowded  up, 
peering  in  at  the  window. 

The  fire  sent  a  sharp  lash  of  flame  across  Mr.  Imlay 's 
foot.  "  Help,  help !  Take  me  out !  "  he  yelled. 

"There's  a  woman  in  there,"  cried  somebody  out 
side. 

"Janey!  Janey  Shannon !"  shouted  Sperry. 

"  I'm  here !     All  right !     I'm  not  hurt !  " 

Her  cheerful  tone  maddened  Mr.  Imlay.  "For 
God's  sake,  save  me!"  he  cried;  "I'm  roasting  to 
death!" 

"  Here,  Janey !  "  Mr.  Sperry  smashed  in  the  win 
dow.  "  Xow,  men,  out  with  the  lady !  " 


120  SILHOUETTES   OF  AMERICAN  LIFE 

But  she  pushed  Mr.  Imlay  forward:  "His  leg  is 
fast.  He's  burning!  Get  this  beam  off  his  leg!" 
she  cried,  tugging  at  it  herself. 

Mr.  Sperry  had  an  axe ;  the  men  grappled  the  beam ; 
it  shook  and  moved.  Mr.  Imlay  dragged  at  his  leg. 
"Oh,  it's  broken!"  he  moaned. 

A  flap  of  fierce  flame  struck  between  him  and  the 
window,  shutting  him  into  this  horrible  death.  He 
hurled  himself  forward  like  a  madman,  thrusting  back 
the  woman :  "  Save  me !  " 

He  heard  himself.  It  was  a  woman  that  he  was 
pushing  back  into  the  fire,  —  he,  William  Imlay. 
"Take  her  out,"  he  said,  in  a  voice  that  wras  almost 
cool,  helping  to  push  her  out  himself.  He  was  un 
conscious  when  they  got  him  through  the  window. 

When  he  opened  his  eyes  it  was  with  a  nausea  of 
pain.  He  lay  in  a  large,  gayly-furnished  chamber. 
A  red-haired  little  man  was  at  work  at  his  leg.  Miss 
Shannon  stood  beside  him,  holding  bandages,  while 
Mr.  Sperry,  a  kerosene  lamp  in  one  hand,  with  the 
fat  fingers  of  the  other  patted  him  consolingly :  "Tut, 
tut!  Come  to  yourself,  eh?  Nearly  through  with 
your  leg.  Bad  sprain.  No  bones  broken." 

"Where  am  I?" 

"At  Emily  Finn's.  You  ought  to  thank  the  good 
God  you're  anywhere."  He  stopped  for  a  second,  then 
went  on  cheerfully :  "  Two  of  us  were  killed,  —  the 
baby  and  Tom:  the  little  chap  with  the  gun,  you 
know?  Well,  well!  they  were  fitter  to  go  than  us  old 
sinners,  I  reckon.  Bob  had  his  head  cut.  So  we 
brought  you  and  him  here." 

"It's  very  kind  of  Mrs.  Finn,"  glancing  about  for 


ACROSS   THE  GULF  121 

her  in  his  writhings  of  pain  with  dignified  polite 
ness. 

"Bah!  What  else  would  you  have  the  woman  do? 
She's  in  the  kitchen,  making  you  a  hot  toddy.  Noth 
ing  like  hot  toddy  after  a  shock." 

"Steady  with  that  light,"  snapped  the  Doctor. — 
"Xow,"  to  Jane,  "drop  the  lotion." 

The  lotion  fell  cool  on  the  crackled  skin.  Jane 
watched  each  drop  anxiously.  The  bed  was  soft:  a 
delicious  sense  of  repose,  of  being  cared  for,  stole  over 
him.  The  one  lesson  of  his  life,  so  far,  had  been  that 
he  ought  to  be  cared  for. 

The  Doctor,  before  he  left,  gave  his  directions  to 
Jane.  Sperry  began  to  blow  up  the  wood-fire  upon 
the  hearth.  Mr.  Imlay  asked  for  a  drink  of  water, 
and  Jane  brought  it  to  him.  Tier  gown  was  still  soaked 
with  the  mud  of  the  ditch,  but  her  head  and  throat 
seemed  to  him  purer  and  finer  from  the  dirty  folds  out 
of  which  they  rose.  Instead  of  taking  the  drink,  he 
stared  at  her.  "  You  tried  to  make  them  pull  me  out 
first,"  he  said.  "I  heard  you." 

"Did  I?"  smiling.  "It's  all  a  blur  to  me.  No 
body  knew  what  they  did." 

"You,  at  any  rate,  did  the  right  thing."  She  had 
forgotten  his  part  in  the  affair,  then?  Should  he  keep 
quiet  and  let  it  go  at  that?  He  took  the  water  and 
drank  it.  But  he  could  not  be  quiet.  Something 
within  him  (not  the  immaculate  William  Imlay)  was 
crying  out  in  an  agony  of  shame  and  degradation.  As 
he  gave  her  back  the  glass  he  looked  her  full  in  the 
face :  "  I  acted  like  a  hound  down  there.  I  think  I 
must  have  been  mad.  I  wish  you  could  forget  it." 


122  SILHOUETTES   OF  AMERICAN  LIFE 

She  fairly  stammered  in  her  hurry  to  stop  him: 
"Hush!  hush!  Don't  blame  yourself.  The  fire,  and 
you  fastened  in,  — it  was  enough  to  craze  anybody." 

What  a  noble  creature  she  was!  He  would  never 
forget  how  she  had  tugged  at  that  beam.  If  Jane 
had  been  forty,  and  lean  and  scrawny,  probably  he 
might  have  forgotten  it. 

Mr.  Sperry  caught  an  inkling  of  what  they  were 
saying.  After  Jane  was  gone  he  came  up :  "  Most 
unselfish  soul  alive.  She'd  have  done  just  the  same 
for  you  if  you  had  been  a  tramp  or  a  darky.  "What 
would  you  like  for  supper?" 

"I  want  no  supper,"  said  Mr.  Imlay  curtly,  turning 
over. 

Would  she  have  done  the  same  for  a  tramp  or  a 
darky?  He  did  not  believe  it. 

It  was  not  the  pain  in  his  leg  that  kept  him  awake 
that  night,  nor  even  the  shame  of  having  acted  like  a 
brute  before  these  good  Christian  people,  though  that 
was  sore  too.  It  was  the  sudden  sight  of  the  brute 
within  him,  which  he  saw  for  the  first  time  in  his  life. 
He  tried  to  put  it  out  of  sight,  to  recall  that  Eeverend 
William  Imlay  whom  he  had  known  so  long,  walking 
into  the  chancel  of  St.  Basil,  irreproachable,  from  the 
Greek  features,  set  in  neat  English  whiskers,  to  the 
sermon  that  he  preached.  Well,  what  was  this  man 
Imlay?  He  preached  generosity,  self-sacrifice,  high 
thinking  and  living,  to  others,  and  went  home  to  be 
pampered  by  his  mother  and  Ann,  to  find  the  day 
spoiled  if  his  toast  was  too  dry  or  his  shirt-collar  too 
limp.  Was  he  nothing  but  a  cheat  and  a  hypocrite, 
then?  Had  he  never  learned  Christ?  The  poor  gen- 


ACROSS   THE   GULF  123 

tleman  took  himself  by  the  throat  that  night,  and  was 
as  miserable  as  any  of  us  would  be  if  we  could  push 
aside  our  respectability  and  circumstance  and  face  the 
naked  self  inside  with  all  of  its  possible  meannesses 
and  an  ties. 

Usually,  when  he  woke  in  the  morning,  the  con 
sciousness  of  himself,  impregnable  in  respectability, 
good  taste,  and  piety,  was  an  armor  of  proof  to  him : 
other  people  touched  him  as  through  a  brass  plate ;  but 
to-day  he  was  cowed  and  beaten,  —  a  worm,  and  no 
man.  These  strangers  about  him  seemed  to  him  to 
have  abnormal  good  qualities,  — tenderness  and  gen 
erosity.  He  was  full  of  gratitude  and  admiration. 
lie  did  not  notice  Mr.  Sperry's  red  necktie  and  blaz 
ing  diamond  scarf-pin  when  he  helped  him  to  dress 
and  wheeled  his  lounge  into  the  wide  low-ceiled  par 
lor.  When,  too,  Mrs.  Finn  flew  to  heap  his  pillows 
and  to  pat  and  purr  over  his  ankle,  it  did  not  occur  to 
him  that  her  soft  crimson  gown  and  airy  manner  would 
not  have  been  seen  on  any  widow  of  fifty  in  St. 
Basil's. 

The  lounge  was  drawn  up  to  the  wood-fire ;  a  great 
tiger-skin  lay  in  front  of  it;  the  breakfast-table,  gay 
with  amber-tinted  napery  and  red  porcelain,  stood  in 
the  middle  of  the  room ;  outside,  the  snow  lay  in  lonely 
unbroken  stretches  for  miles.  While  Mrs.  Finn  buzzed 
about  him,  Jane  patiently  waited  on  her  father  and 
Bob,  who  were  both  cross  and  grumpish,  teasing,  jok 
ing  with  them,  forcing  them  to  laugh.  Mr.  Inilay 
could  not  take  his  eyes  from  her  when  she  was  in  the 
room.  This  strange  woman  seemed  more  womanly  to 
him  than  any  that  he  had  ever  seen.  His  interest  in 


124  SILHOUETTES   OF  AMERICAN  LIFE 

her,  he  told  himself,  was  wholly  due  to  her  having 
tried  to  save  his  life.  Still,  he  did  observe  the  soft 
curves  of  her  figure  as  she  stooped  over  the  coffee- 
urn,  and  her  dark  questioning  eyes. 

Mr.  Imlay  presently  sent  a  telegram  to  his  mother. 
"Tell  her,"  he  said,  "what  has  happened,  and  that  I 
am  safe  in  the  care  of  kind  Christian  friends." 

Mr.  Sperry  wrote  it,  and  then  read  it  to  Mrs.  Finn 
outside  in  the  hall.  "Add  a  message  from  me,"  she 
said  quickly.  "  Invite  her  to  come  to  us  at  once :  she 
must  be  very  anxious." 

"ISTo,  Emily.  It  would  not  do.  I  saw  the  old  lady. 
She  would  not  get  on  with  the  profession  at  all.  She 
would  think  her  boy  was  Samson  in  the  hands  of 
Delilah  and  the  Philistines." 

Mrs.  Finn  tossed  her  chin  and  laughed,  the  color 
rising  in  her  cheeks. 

"Of  course  she  would,"  persisted  Sperry.  "Sup 
pose  she  had  seen  you  rehearsing  your  old  Juliet  at 
him  over  his  toast  just  now?  Lord,  Em!  d'ye  mind 
when  you  first  went  on  as  Juliet,  twenty  years  ago, 
in  Richmond?" 

"  Yes,  indeed !  Shives  was  Romeo.  He  went  into 
Biggs's  Minstrel  Combination  just  after  I  married 
John  Finn.  Do  you  know,  this  young  man  reminds 
me  of  Shives?" 

"You  could  make  just  such  a  fool  of  him,  for  all 
your  forty  years,  if  you  put  your  mind  to  it.  How 
that  donkey  used  to  go  dangling  round  the  country 
after  you !  And  this  young  man  —  " 

"That  will  do,  Uncle  George.  I'm  too  old  for  that 
sort  of  talk, "  gravely. 


ACROSS   THE   GULF  125 

"Well,  I  was  only  going  to  say  you  had  better  let 
Janey  entertain  him.  She'll  never  damage  any  man's 
heart.  She  stands  and  sings  with  her  eyes  on  the 
footlights,  as  solid  as  the  gallery-posts." 

Mis.  Finn  accordingly  sent  Jane  in  to  read  to  Mr. 
Imlay,  and  called  in  the  farmer,  to  talk  over  the  early 
crops  with  him.  But  the  angry  heat  still  burned  in 
her  face.  Delilah,  indeed!  George  Sperry's  jokes 
were  always  coarse.  Mrs.  Finn  (or,  as  she  was  known 
in  "the  profession,"  Belle  de  Vere)  might  have  had 
certain  too  salient  points  in  her  history  thirty  years 
ago,  but  in  the  meantime  she  had  been  a  faithful, 
hard-working  wife  to  John  Finn.  She  was  now  a 
shrewd  farmer  and  manager,  anxiously  scraping  the 
dollars  together  to  give  her  big  boys  a  start  in  life. 
When  she  had  opened  her  house,  with  her  heart  full 
of  pity,  to  take  in  this  wounded  minister  of  the  gos 
pel,  why  could  not  his  mother  come  into  it  without 
fear  of  soiling  her  skirts?  Delilah!  Mrs.  Finn's 
heart  was  bitter  within  her  against  George  Sperry  as 
she  sat  talking  to  Botts  about  celery-troughs. 

Jane  went  in  unwillingly  to  entertain  Mr.  Imlay. 
She  had  her  work  to  do.  She  carried  in  a  big  basket 
ful  of  Bob's  clothes  to  patch,  and,  giving  her  patient 
a  magazine,  soon  forgot  that  he  was  there.  The  girl 
had  neither  the  culture  nor  the  ready  tongue  of  Emily 
Finn.  Beyond  a  child's  schooling,  she  had  been 
taught  only  to  sing,  dance,  and  the  business  of  the 
stage.  She  knew  nobody  but  her  father  and  a  half 
dozen  other  players,  and  them  only  in  a  business  way. 
The  young  girl's  brain  was  not  very  nimble  nor  strong, 
and  the  task  of  bringing  clothes  and  food  for  three 


126  SILHOUETTES   OF  AMERICAN  LIFE 

persons  out  of  ten  dollars  a  week  had  thus  far  taxed 
it  to  the  extent  of  its  powers. 

Mr.  Imlay  watched  her  over  his  book.  What 
wretched  old  clothes  she  mended!  How  anxious  she 
was  about  them!  Her  one  good  winter  dress  was  wet 
last  night,  and  she  wore  a  faded  gown  which  she  had 
long  outgrown.  It  better  showed  the  white  arms  and 
the  shapely  foot,  but  it  touched  Mr.  Imlay's  heart  with 
pity.  He  had  a  nice  taste  in  clothes.  What  patience 
and  tenderness  were  in  this  poor  teacher's  lovely  face ! 
How  it  kindled  at  sight  of  her  father  and  the  boy! 
Mr.  Imlay  wondered  how  long  she  would  have  to 
carry  that  heavy  burden.  If  he  could  secure  her  a 
position  somewhere,  higher  than  in  Kneedles's  school? 

Presently  he  began  to  talk  to  her,  and  naturally,  of 
the  subject  most  interesting  to  him,  — himself  and  his 
sermons.  "I  had  intended  to  prea.eh  on  St.  John's 
life  to-morrow,"  he  said,  "and  I  think  I  had  a  new 
view  of  it." 

Jane  dropped  her  sewing;  her  eyes  turned  on  him 
with  a  timid  surprise  and  excitement  which  flattered 
him  greatly.  It  was  the  first  time  she  had  ever  met 
a  clergyman,  and  that  he  should  actually  talk  to  her 
of  his  sermon  amazed  and  delighted  her.  If  she  could 
only  get  Bob  in  to  hear !  She  was  so  anxious  to  make 
a  good  boy  of  Bob.  Though  Jane  knew  nothing  of 
clergymen  or  church  doctrines,  and  had  sometimes 
heard  a  good  deal  of  ugly  talk  in  the  wings,  she  was  a 
decent,  pure  girl,  and  had  naturally  a  devout  soul.  She 
knew  that  her  mother  had  been  an  Episcopalian,  and, 
wherever  the  troupe  might  be  on  Sundays,  she  would 
steal  off  to  a  chapel  and  there  join  in  the  prayers,  and 


ACROSS   THE   GULF  127 

in  the  afternoon  would  read  to  Bob  out  of  an  old 
prayer-book  and  show  him  their  mother's  name  on  the 
fly-leaf. 

"How  are  they  getting  along?"  asked  Mrs.  Finn 
presently  of  Mr.  Speriy,  who  had  paid  a  flying  visit 
to  their  patient. 

"  Oh,  capitally !  He  is  explaining  apostolic  succes 
sion,  and  Jane  listens  breathless  as  if  it  was  to  Kean 
in'Shylock.'" 

So  it  came  about  that  for  a  week  Mr.  Imlay  and  Bob 
were  left  to  Jane's  care.  Mrs.  Finn,  who  was  to  play 
the  Queen  in  "  Hamlet "  next  week,  was  busy  trim 
ming  her  robes  with  imitation  ermine,  and  Mr.  Sperry, 
who  was  the  heavy  villain  in  a  stock  company  in  New 
York,  came  and  went  every  day. 

During  one  of  these  visits  Mr.  Imlay  began  to  talk 
to  him  of  Jane  with  his  usual  awkward  dignity:  "It 
may  seem  intrusive  in  me,  sir.  But  Miss  Shannon 
has  been  most  kind  and  considerate.  Some  steps 
should  be  taken  to  relieve  her  of  this  crushing  weight 
of  responsibility.  I  regret  to  speak  of  details,  Mr. 
Sperry.  But  her  salary  in  that  school  is  absurdly 
small,  and  I  observe  —  I  observe  that  —  her  self- 
sacrifice  amounts  to  actual  suffering.  Why,  her  gowns 
really  seem  inadequate  to  protect  her  from  the  cold." 

"Well,  what  can  be  done?"  said  Mr.  Sperry,  with  a 
puzzled,  searching  glance  at  him.  "  One  could  hardly 
offer  Janey  clothes." 

"Certainly  not!"  Mr.  Imlay 's  face  burned  hotly. 
"But  if  some  permanent  relief  could  be  devised  — 
There  is  a  Home  for  the  Blind  in  Philadelphia,  to 
which,  by  a  little  influence,  her  father  could  be 


128  SILHOUETTES   OF  AMERICAN  LIFE 

admitted.  I  think  I  could  manage  that.  Robert  could 
be  placed  at  school.  Then  the  child  could  breathe." 

"Why,  you're  a  regular  brick!"  Mr.  Sperry  gave 
him  a  tremendous  clap  on  the  back. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon !  "  Mr.  Imlay  drew  himself  up 
stiffly. 

"  I  beg  yours.  But  men  of  your  cloth  are  not  often 
such  hearty  good  fellows,  and  you  really  took  me  by 
surprise.  Well,  suppose  the  old  gentleman  and  Bob 
out  of  the  way,  what  do  you  want  done  with  Janey? 
Ten  dollars  a  week  is  not  much;  but,  you  see,  it's  a 
certainty  with  Kneedles." 

Mr.  Imlay  was  silent.  The  question  raised  a  sud 
den  unexpected  storm  of  emotion  within  him  which 
frightened  him.  What  did  he  want  done  with  Janey? 
What  on  earth  was  Janey  to  him? 

Mr.  Sperry,  after  pouring  out  a  flood  of  opinions, 
postponed  the  subject  and  hurried  away  to  catch  his 
train.  Miss  Shannon  was  in  the  outer  room,  sewing. 
"I  say,  little  girl,"  he  said,  halting,  "there's  no  need 
of  your  telling  your  patient  in  there  that  you  or  we 
belong  to  the  profession.  Heh?  It  might  make  him 
uncomfortable." 

"Very  well.  I  don't  want  to  make  him  uncomfort 
able,"  said  Jane  indifferently,  measuring  her  work. 

"  Kneedles  will  let  you  stay  until  Wednesday.  On 
full  salary." 

"Then  I  can  finish  these  shirts,"  smiling  and 
pleased.  "  I  have  not  had  such  a  chance  to  sew  for 
years." 

Mrs.  Finn  followed  him  out.  "I'll  buy  her  off 
from  Kneedles  till  Wednesday,"  he  explained  anx- 


ACROSS   THE  GULF 

iously.  "  She  has  made  an  influential  friend  in  there. 
Perhaps —  "  nodding  significantly. 

"There  is  nothing  in  that,"  said  Emily  Finn  deci 
sively.  "  She  does  not  care  a  straw  for  him.  Her  head 
is  full  of  her  shirts." 

Mr.  Imlay  was  curt  and  dry  with  his  nurse  all  day. 
What  was  this  Jane  Shannon  to  him?  He  read  over 
again  a  letter  which  had  arrived  from  Miss  Clara 
Lowry.  Mr.  Imlay  was  not  engaged  to  Miss  Lowry, 
but  all  St.  Basil's  Church  expected  him  to  marry  her. 
There  really  was  no  reason  why  he  should  not  marry 
her.  She  was  handsome,  refined,  dignified;  his  mother 
was  fond  of  her;  there  was  no  better  blood  in  the 
State  than  that  of  the  Lowrys ;  she  had  a  settled  in 
come.  She  was  already  energetic  in  the  church :  she 
managed  all  the  fairs,  taught  the  men's  Bible-class. 
He  tried  to  think  of  her  as  his  wife,  sitting  by  his 
study  table,  planning  out  his  sermon,  — which,  indeed, 
Clara  was  quite  competent  to  do.  What  had  Janey's 
rosy,  eager  face  to  do  in  the  picture?  Why  did  he 
seem  to  feel  continually  her  firm,  light  touch  on  his 
ankle?  He  was  angry  at  her  and  himself.  He  dressed 
his  foot  himself  that  afternoon,  and  then,  the  moment 
she  came  in,  he  asked  her  to  adjust  the  bandages. 
Imagine  the  high-bred  decorous  Miss  Lowry  dressing 
a  man's  bare  foot.  But  this  warm-hearted,  tender 
girl  would  do  it,  if  need  be,  for  a  tramp  or  a  darky,  as 
Sperry  had  said. 

He  turned  his  back  on  Jane  and  pretended  to  be 
asleep,  and  then  furtively  watched  her  as  she  sat  by 
the  window,  in  the  fast-fading  light,  stooping  over  her 
work.  How  thin  her  oval  cheek  was !  and  her  breath, 


130  SILHOUETTES   OF  AMERICAN  LIFE 

too,  came  quick  and  short.  He  did  not  like  that. 
She  had  said  once  that  her  mother  had  died  of  con 
sumption.  If  she  had  an  easy  life,  she  might  be 
saved.  If  she  could  go  a  little  farther  south  with 
some  one  who  would  watch  and  care  for  her  — 

If —  Mr.  Iinlay  flushed  hotly  from  head  to  foot. 
He  started  up  011  the  sofa.  It  seemed  to  him  as  if  all 
the  world  must  have  heard  his  thought. 

In  the  meantime,  it  had  grown  so  dark  that  Jane 
had  dropped  her  work  and  was  singing  to  herself  some 
pathetic  ditty  about  a  dead  child.  Mr.  Imlay  had  not 
heard  her  sing  before :  he  listened  with  astonishment. 
Presently  he  forgot  to  be  astonished :  his  throat  choked ; 
the  tears  crept  clown  his  cheeks.  Deep,  wordless 
meanings  were  in  the  voice.  Surely  the  girl's  soul 
spoke  in  it,  and  spoke  to  his.  How  rapt  was  the  look 
in  her  eyes  as  she  sang! 

Jane  was  amused  when  she  saw  his  tears,  but  good- 
naturedly  sang  on.  She  was  used  to  see  people  cry 
when  she  sang  that  ballad,  —  the  fine  ladies  in  the 
boxes  and  the  boys  in  the  gallery.  For  herself,  she 
did  not  like  the  song :  she  had  such  trouble  with  the 
high  C.  As  for  the  rapt  expression,  she  was  wonder 
ing  just  then  whether  Bob  could  possibly  pull  through 
the  winter  with  that  overcoat. 

As  the  poor  young  fellow  on  the  sofa  listened,  pas- 
s  ions  and  hopes  such  as  he  had  never  known  surged  up 
within  him.  It  was  not  the  dead  baby  that  wrenched 
his  heart  and  drew  the  hopeless  longing  tears  to  his 
eyes.  It  was  the  girl  yonder  sitting  in  the  yellow 
light;  it  was  something  in  her  which  had  been  lost 
out  of  his  own  life.  He  must  have  it!  No  matter 


ACROSS   THE  GULF  131 

what  St.  Basil's  or  his  mother  or  Miss  Lowry 
thought,  ho  must  have  it. 

]  fe  called  to  her.  She  rose  and  came  quickly  up 
to  him.  "Jane!"  he  said.  He  was  hoarse:  he 
coughed  to  control  his  voice.  He  was  quite  right  in 
what  he  was  going  to  do.  It  would  not  do  for  him  to 
be  swept  away  by  any  flood  of  passion,  but  Jane  was 
the  only  real  thing  to  him  in  the  world.  Even  if  you 
reasoned  about  it,  there  was  a  fibre,  a  genuineness, 
about  her :  her  hard  work,  her  unselfishness,  even  her 
fun  and  laughter,  made  Miss  Lowry  seem  like  a  chilly 
shadow.  He  took  her  hand.  "Jane,"  he  said  again, 
looking  up  into  her  face. 

"  What  is  it?    Can  I  give  you  anything,  Mr.  Imlay?  " 

"You  can  give  me  —  "  he  began  passionately,  then 
he  coughed  —  "  a  cup  of  tea.  No,  —  water." 

"He  does  not  know  his  own  mind  half  a  minute," 
thought  Jane,  amused.  She  brought  both  the  tea  and 
water,  laughing  at  him,  making  playful,  girlish  jokes 
about  his  whims  which  would  have  shocked  Miss 
Lowry. 

Mr.  Imlay  did  not  know  his  own  mind  on  that  day, 
or  on  Monday  or  Tuesday.  On  Wednesday  he  was  to 
go  home.  One  hour  he  felt  himself  possessed  by  a 
demon,  an  honest,  fierce  creature  who  must  have 
Jane,  who  could  not  live  without  Jane;  the  next,  he 
was  the  calm  and  critical  William  Imlay,  making  con 
temptuous  pictures  of  himself  bringing  home  this 
bride.  She  would  be  expected  to  take  the  leading 
part  in  the  religious  and  literary  sociables  and  the 
aesthetic  teas  of  church  society, — Jane,  who  had 
but  one  shabby  merino  gown,  who  adored  chromos, 


132  SILHOUETTES   OF  AMERICAN  LIFE 

who  asked  the  other  day  if  the  Europeans  were  gen 
erally  pagans.  He  was  a  fool, — a  mad  fool.  And 
yet  —  yet  — 

Finally,  he  determined  to  do  nothing  until  he  had 
consulted  his  mother.  She  was  wise:  she  always 
looked  after  his  best  interests.  He  would  lay  the 
whole  matter  before  her. 

When  he  was  ready  to  start  on  Wednesday  morn 
ing,  he  found,  to  his  surprise,  the  whole  household 
prepared  to  take  the  train  with  him. 

"Mr.  Sperry  and  I  have  business  in  Philadelphia," 
explained  Mrs.  Finn,  "and  Janey  joins  Kneedles 
there." 

For  an  hour  and  a  half  longer,  therefore,  he  would 
have  her  in  sight.  He  felt  an  absurd  boyish  rapture 
of  which  he  was  ashamed.  She  was  with  her  father 
in  the  front  of  the  car:  the  old  man  was  unusually 
kind  and  protecting  in  his  manner  to  her,  and  she 
seemed  tired  and  depressed.  Mr.  Imlay  sat  watching 
her.  What  rare  distinction  was  in  her  face  and  fig 
ure!  St.  Basil's  had  never  seen  anything  like  that. 
If  he  should  bring  her  among  them,  it  would  be  like 
setting  up  the  Venus  of  Milo  beside  fashion-plates ! 

When  the  train  stopped  at  Philadelphia  he  hobbled 
up  to  her.  She  looked  up.  "  Is  it  really  time  to  say 
'Good-bye'?"  she  said,  her  chin  quivering  a  little. 
Jane  was  an  affectionate  creature,  and  very  few  peo 
ple  had  been  kind  to  her.  The  quiver  of  the  chin 
meant  just  so  much,  — nothing  more.  But  it  touched 
Mr.  Imlay  to  the  quick. 

"  Ko.  I  am  not  going  on  to  Baltimore  to-night.  I 
will  stay  here, — with  you,"  he  said,  speaking  thick 


ACROSS   THE  GULF  133 

and  fast.     As  lie  handed  her  from  the  car  his  fingers 
were  icy  cold. 

Jane  watched  him,  wondering,  as  he  sat  opposite  to 
her  in  the  carriage,  stiff  and  silent,  a  pillar  of  propri 
ety  in  his  high  hat  and  upright  collar,  beside  Mr. 
Sperry,  fat,  joking,  and,  as  usual,  many  lined  as  to 
clothes.  Yet  there  was  a  new  meaning  in  the  quick 
furtive  glances  of  the  younger  man  which  made  her 
breath  come  quicker  with  a  pleased  terror.  It  was 
not  altogether  an  attraction  of  the  blood  which  held 
Mr.  Imlay  there  bound  to  this  woman.  There  was  a 
certain  force  and  directness  in  her  character  and  life 
which  was  totally  new  to  him.  He  knew  nothing  of 
the  world  outside  of  books  and  the  calm  society  of 
wealthy  people  whose  manners  and  religion  alike  were 
pliable,  inoffensive,  and  elegant.  There  were  plenty 
of  gentle,  prettily-dressed  girls  in  his  church,  singing 
hymns  sweetly,  working  beautiful  Bible  mottoes.  But 
this  shabby  teacher,  tottering  through  her  youth  with 
this  selfish  old  man  and  boy  on  her  back,  — the  sight 
stirred  him  like  high  distant  music. 

The  carriage  stopped  at  the  door  of  a  boarding-house 
on  a  side-street.  A  lean,  pimply  man,  smelling  strongly 
of  brandy,  was  standing  smoking  on  the  steps.  He 
hurried  out,  tapped  Janey  familiarly  on  the  back  as 
she  alighted,  and  went  with  her  into  the  house. 

"Business!"  said  Mr.  Sperry.  " That's  Kneedles. 
He's  sharp  on  the  trigger,  I  tell  you!  " 

"  But  that  is  not  a  gentleman !  "  said  the  clergyman, 
his  pale  face  flushed.  "  He  is  not  a  fit  person  to  have 
control  of  —  of  a  school  for  young  ladies.  Miss  Shan 
non  must  sever  her  connection  with  him  at  once.  I 
insist  —  " 


134  SILHOUETTES   OF  AMERICAN  LIFE 

"Don't  insist  on  anything  just  now,"  said  Sperry 
with  a  worried  look.  "Come  in;  come  in.  She'll  be 
out  presently." 

Mr.  Imlay  waited  in.  the  hall  until  Jane  came  out 
of  the  parlor.  Mr.  Kneedles  preceded  her.  He  stared 
at  the  clergyman's  white  neck-cloth,  nodded  to  Sperry, 
and  turned  to  the  door.  "  You'll  come  down  at  once?  " 
he  said  authoritatively  to  Jane. 

"  Oh,  immediately!  "  She  was  excited  and  pleased. 
Her  eyes  sparkled;  that  peculiar  fine  smile  was  on 
her  lips  which  had  become  so  dear  to  William  Imlay. 

As  she  went  out  on  the  steps  he  followed  her :  "  I 
will  go  with  you.  I  have  something  to  say  to  you." 

"As  you  please."  I  Hit  she  hardly  noticed  him  as 
she  tripped  lightly  on,  looking  as  if  she  could  scarcely 
keep  from  singing  or  laughing.  The  slanting  evening 
light  struck  through  the  quiet  street.  He  observed 
with  keen  pleasure  that  the  passers-by  invariably 
glanced  a  second  time  at  the  radiant  face  under  the 
picturesque  wide  hat.  If  this  delicate  rare  creature 
were  his  own! 

"  Mr.  Kneedles  is  going  to  double  my  salary !  "  she 
broke  out  at  last.  "  I  shall  have  more  work ;  but  that's 
nothing.  Twenty  dollars  a  week.  And  we  stay  here 
all  winter!  There  are  schools  that  I  can  afford  to 
send  Bob  to  now,  where  he  will  be  with  gentlemen's 
sons.  And  there  are  lots  of  dear  little  houses  for 
thirty  dollars  a  month,  — bath-room,  gas,  marble  fac 
ings, —  simply  perfect!  I  always  wanted  to  keep 
house.  I'm  a  first-rate  cook,  Mr.  Imlay.  Gracious ! 
It's  too  good  to  be  true!"  She  swung  her  umbrella 
and  laughed  out  loudly  from  sheer  gladness.  Mr. 


ACROSS   THE  GULF  135 

Imlay  shuddered.  But  no  matter!  These  trifling 
gaucheries  would  soon  be  cured. 

They  were  passing  an  open  square  filled  with  aisles 
of  leafless  trees.,  The  snow  lay  deep  and  untrodden 
beneath.  On  the  other  side  of  the  pavement  was  a 
high  brick  Avail  covered  with  flaming  placards.  It 
was  a  quiet  place ;  he  would  speak  to  her  here :  "  You 
speak  as  if  this  man  Kneedles  were  to  control  your 
future.  I  think  that  I  —  Come  away !  Why  do  you 
look  at  those  things?"  he  cried,  interrupting  himself; 
for  she  had  stopped  in  front  of  a  great  poster  and  was 
examining  it  with  beaming  eyes.  It  represented  a 
frowzy  female  of  gigantic  proportions,  with  a  liberal 
display  of  neck  and  arms,  being  dragged  by  the  hair 
to  a  precipice  by  a  stalwart  villain.  BeloAv,  enormous 
red  letters  notified  the  public  that  this  was  Miss  Violet 
Dupont  in  her  great  and  world-renowned  role  of  the 
Rose  of  the  Prairie. 

"You  should  not  look  at  those  vile  things,"  he 
repeated  gently,  laying  his  hand  on  her  arm. 

She  drew  back  so  that  his  hand  dropped.  "Vile?" 
she  said  in  a  low  tone.  "Vile?"  She  grew  exces 
sively  pale  as  she  stood  looking  at  him  steadily. 
"You  do  not  understand,  Mr.  Imlay.  I  am  Violet 
Dupont." 

He  did  not  understand  even  now,  nor  until  she  had 
gone  on  speaking  for  some  time.  He  was  always 
unready  of  apprehension.  He  stared  alternately  at 
her  and  at  the  placard. 

"  Mr.  Sperry  said  not  to  tell  you  that  we  were  actors : 
you  had  prejudices.  But  —  'rile'  ?  1  did  not  think 
anybody  —  "  She  put  the  back  of  her  shut  hand  up 


136  SILHOUETTES   OF  AMERICAN  LIFE 

to  her  mouth  with  a  choking  sound,  turned,  and  walked 
quickly  away. 

Mr.  Imlay  followed  at  a  distance  for  several  squares ; 
then  he  came  up  to  her  side.  Whatever  battle  was 
raging  within  him,  the  almost  unconscious  habit  of 
stiff  politeness  was  still  dominant.  "  I  am  sorry  if  I 
appeared  rude,"  he  said.  "That  picture  is  really 
gross,  vulgar;  and  you  —  you  seemed  the  purest  thing 
on  God's  earth  to  me.  I  cannot  associate  you  with 
it."  His  eyes,  as  he  spoke,  were  fixed  on  her  with 
the  same  vacant,  amazed  survey  as  when  she  had  first 
dealt  the  blow. 

"You  may  associate  me  with  it,  then,"  said  Jane 
tartly :  "  I  am  Violet  Dupont.  I  suppose  that  picture 
isn't  very  pretty,  — I  don't  think,  myself,  it's  a  flat 
tering  likeness  of  me,  — but  it's  worth  a  good  deal  to 
me  in  my  business.  I  never  had  my  name  on  the 
posters  before,  and  I  did  not  expect  to  have  my  pic 
ture  billed  for  years  to  come."  And  the  soft  lovely 
eyes  glanced  at  it  with  triumph. 

For  there  it  was  facing  them  again.  On  every 
blank  wall,  in  the  windows  of  the  barber-shops  and 
beer-saloons,  Violet  Dupont,  with  her  bare  neck  and 
brawny  arms,  stared  out  at  him.  He  turned  to  the 
Avoman  whom  half  an  hour  ago  he  had  meant  to  make 
his  wife.  There  could  be  no  doubt  of  it:  there  was 
an  appalling  likeness  to  her  in  it,  and  she  was  delighted 
with  that  horrible  notoriety.  Yet  how  pure  she 
looked!  He  stopped,  shuddering.  She  passed  on, 
and  he  almost  ran  to  overtake  her. 

As  for  Jane,  she  neither  saw  him  lag  behind  nor 
run  after  her.  She  had  forgotten  that  he  was  there. 


ACROSS   THE  GULF  137 

Twenty  dollars  and  her  picture  billed !  If  this  sort  of 
thing  went  on,  Bob  could  go  to  college.  And  Mr. 
Sperry  had  wanted  to  put  him  to  a  trade !  There  was 
a  sweet  little  house  with  lace  curtains  at  the  windows : 
something  like  that,  now  could  be  managed;  and  a 
new  suit  for  her  father.  Her  own  street-dress  was 
terribly  shabby.  She  anxiously  eyed  the  gown  of 
every  pretty  girl  who  passed  her.  There  was  not  one 
of  them  whose  heart  was  filled  with  more  innocent 
desires  than  was  poor  Jane's;  but  how  was  Mr.  Imlay 
to  know  that?  The  vulgar  publicity  which  would 
have  been  loathsome  to  him  undeniably  thrilled  her 
with  triumph.  She  stopped  at  the  back  entrance  to 
the  theatre. 

"Is  this  the  place?" 

"Oh,  Mr.  Imlay!  I  thought  you  had  gone.  Yes, 
this  is  the  place.  I  am  to  be  a  super  to-night,  but  I 
rehearse  for  the  Rose  to-morrow,"  laughing  to  herself 
at  the  alarm  and  horror  in  his  face.  "  You  won't 
come  in?  Xo.  I  know:  you  have  prejudices.  Good 
bye,  then.  I  shall  see  you  at  dinner." 

Prejudices?  As  she  passed  down  the  dark  little 
alley-way  a  gulf  opened  between  them  impassable  as 
death.  Yet  he  would  drag  her  back  over  it.  This 
good  pure  girl  tottering  on  the  edge  of  hell,  —  should 
he  not  put  out  his  hand  to  save  her? 

The  terrible  emergency  almost  forced  William  Imlay 
to  know  his  own  mind.  He  wandered  about  the  streets 
until  nightfall.  Once  a  brother-minister  met  him, 
and  overwhelmed  him  with  congratulations  on  his 
escape  in  the  train:  "En  route  to  Baltimore,  eh? 
No,  110 :  come  and  take  tea  with  us,  and  spend  the 


138  SILHOUETTES   OF  AMERICAN  LIFE 

night.  It  is  our  lecture-evening:  perhaps  you  will 
make  a  few  remarks  to  my  people?" 

"I  have  business,"  pleaded  the  wretched  man. 
"There  are  friends  whom  I  must  see." 

Jf  Dr.  McLeod  knew  that  his  friends  were  strolling 

o 

players,  and  his  business  to  marry  one  of  them ! 

The  good  Doctor  went  home  to  his  wife  greatly 
troubled.  "I  met  William  Imlay  just  now/'  he  said, 
"  and  he  is  completely  shattered  by  that  accident.  I 
don't  like  his  looks  at  all:  his  mind  seems  unhinged. 
I  wish  I  had  made  him  come  home  with  me." 

"I  wish  you  had:  we  have  a  very  nice  tea.  It 
would  kill  Mary  Imlay  if  anything  should  happen  to 
that  boy,"  said  his  wife. 

About  ten  o'clock  Mr.  Sperry  ran  against  the  clergy 
man  behind  the  scenes  of  the  theatre :  "  How !  what ! 
Mr.  Imlay?  How  did  you  come  here?  "  he  exclaimed, 
shocked  at  his  wild,  haggard  face.  "  Come  into  this 
room,"  for  the  young  people  were  staring  and  laugh 
ing  at  the  clerical  necktie,  which  he  had  taken  no 
pains  to  hide. 

"Xo.  I  will  stay  here.  I  must  see  Jane.  I  must 
make  her  give  up  this  life." 

"  Yes,  yes,  of  course,"  said  Sperry  soothingly.  "But 
if  you  would  talk  to  her  to-morrow  —  " 

Mr.  Imlay  shook  his  head  obstinately.  "McLeod," 
he  muttered,  "wanted  me  to  preach  to-night.  But 
my  work  is  here.  He  that  saves  a  soul  alive  —  " 

"Very  well.  Janey  will  be  off  presently."  Mr. 
Sperry  was  hurried,  and  proceeded  to  make  up  his 
face  at  a  glass,  by  means  of  cork  and  burnt  umber  and 
a  gray  wig.  It  was  an  anxious,  not  unskilful  bit  of 
work. 


ACROSS   THE   GULF  139 

Mr.  Imlay,  left  to  himself,  was  startled  by  the  fact 
that  tliis  was  all  work  that  was  going  on  about  him. 
A  theatre,  he  had  supposed,  was  a  brilliant,  bewilder 
ing  fairy-land,  the  haunt  of  wild  dissipation;  players 
were  lost  souls  who  spent  their  time  in  idle  jollity  and 
open  sin.  There  was  no  enchantment  and  no  vice 
which  it  would  have  surprised  him  to  see  behind  that 
fatal  curtain.  What  he  did  see  was  a  dusty  floor 
and  the  plank  backs  of  trees  an  inch  thick,  dirty  can 
vas  castles  and  stormy  seas,  a  table  set  with  tin  gob 
lets  and  a  dish  of  cotton  ice-cream.  Where  were  the 
enchantment,  the  wicked  sirens,  the  deluded  lovers, 
that  everybody  knows  revel  behind  the  scenes?  Half 
a  dozen  workmen  with  their  sleeves  rolled  up  pushed 
the  heavy  board  screens  about;  in  an  inner  room  some 
men  and  women,  mostly  middle-aged,  were  ranged  on 
wicker  settees,  *  many  of  them  with  paper  books  in 
their  hands,  which  they  studied  assiduously  until  they 
were  called.  They  seldom  spoke  to  each  other,  and 
looked  worn  and  fagged.  The  players  who  ran  off 
the  stage  with  a  laugh  or  song  seated  themselves 
instantly,  dull  and  silent.  Mr.  Imlay's  mind  may 
have  been  unhinged,  but  he  had  sense  enough  to  see 
that  this  was  not  hellish  sport  from  which  he  had 
come  to  take  Jane,  but  work,  —  hard,  steady  drudgery. 
The  fun,  the  gayety,  belonged  to  the  audience :  behind 
the  curtain  there  were  few  jokes  or  laughs.  The  only 
idle  person  was  Jane's  blind  father,  who  sat  dozing  in 
the  corner. 

"He  always  brings  Janey  and  takes  her  away," 
explained  Mr.  Sperry.  "  I  bet  you  that  fellow  Kneedles 
will  make  her  work  now  for  her  twenty  dollars !  She 


140  SILHOUETTES   OF  AMERICAN  LIFE 

has  three  super's  parts  to-night,  — nothing  to  say,  but 
changes  her  dress  ten  times.  Worst  of  it  is,  she  goes 
right  out  of  a  heavy  witch's  costume,  —  fur  cloak, 
and  wraps  over  her  head,  —  wet  with  perspiration,  into 
a  ball-dress,  bare  neck  and  arms.  You've  no  idea 
of  the  draughts  on  that  stage.  I  shiver  even  in  my 
cloth  clothes.  Here  she  is." 

How  superbly  beautiful  she  was !  But  nobody  but 
himself  seemed  to  think  of  her  beauty. 

Mrs.  Finn,  in  trailing  cotton-velvet  robes  and  gilt 
crown,  hurried  after  her:  "Put  this  shawl  round  you. 
You  are  shivering,  and  your  head  is  like  fire.  — This 
must  be  stopped,  George  Sperry,  at  once,"  she  con 
tinued  angrily.  "  If  you  don't  speak  to  Kneedles,  I 
will,  though  I  break  my  engagement  by  it.  It  is 
sheer  murder  for  a  girl  with  delicate  lungs." 

Jane,  who  was  coughing  violently,  checked  herself 
with  a  laugh :  "  Nonsense,  Emily !  jSTever  was  better 
in  my  life!  I  can't  expect  to  be  paid  twenty  dollars 
for  doing  nothing.  The  truth  is,"  she  added  vehe 
mently,  "I  never  can  play  a  speaking  part:  that's  the 
truth,  and  you  know  it.  All  that  I  can  earn  must  be 
by  posing.  Don't  speak  to  Kneedles.  Don't  take 
our  bread  and  butter  away." 

Mr.  Imlay  stepped  forward.  But  the  life  seemed  to 
be  suddenly  sapped  out  of  his  arguments.  He  had 
meant  to  snatch  this  soul  from  the  edge  of  hell.  But 
was  she  on  the  edge  of  hell?  "I  came,"  he  said  form 
ally  enough,  "to  persuade  you  to  leave  this  mode  of 
life.  It  does  not  seem  to  me  —  " 

"I  understand  all  that,"  said  Jane  impatiently, 
standing  very  erect.  "You  have  your  prejudices 


ACROSS   THE  GULF  141 

against  our  profession,  Mr.  Imlay,  but  it  is  my  trade. 
It  is  all  I  can  do.  I  have  myself  and  —  and  others  to 
support.  I  cannot  teach,  nor  write,  nor  paint.  What 
other  work  is  there  that  would  bring  me  in  twenty 
dollars  a  week?" 

Was  it  really  a  trade,  a  mere  question  of  work  and 
wages? 

"  The  temptation—  "  he  faltered. 

"/  don't  think,"  said  Mrs.  Finn  sharply,  "that 
Janey  is  exposed  to  more  temptation  here  than  if  she 
were  a  shop-girl  obliged  to  dress  decently  and  feed 
herself  on  three  dollars  a  week.  —  There,  George !  cur 
tain's  up." 

A  shrill  boy's  voice  squeaked  out  something  at  the 
door,  and  in  a  moment  the  room  was  empty.  Only 
Jane  was  left.  She  looked  at  Mr.  Imlay,  hesitated, 
and  then  went  directly  up  to  him  and  laid  her  hand 
on  his  arm.  There  wras  little  intellect  in  her  dark 
eyes,  but  there  was  an  almost  motherly  affectionate- 
ness,  a  common-sense  which  seemed  to  the  irresolute 
man  before  her  strangely  durable  and  strong.  "  You 
are  very  kind  to  me, "  she  said.  "  But  you  had  better 
go  away  now.  Clergymen  don't  come  here.  Don't 
worry  about  me.  It's  hard  work,  but  the  pay  is  good. 
It's  the  right  thing, — "  she  stopped,  then  repeated 
with  emphasis,  — "it's  the  right  thing  for  me  to  stay 
with  Kneedles." 

She  urged  him  gently  toward  the  door.  He  had  not 
asked  her  to  be  his  wife,  —  she  did  not  know  that  he 
loved  her :  "  One  moment,  Jane ! "  stopping  on  the 
threshold. 

"No.    They  are  calling  me.    Good-bye."    She  smiled 


142  SILHOUETTES   OF  AMERICAN  LIFE 

and  kissed  her  hand.  He  fancied  that  the  tears  stood 
in  her  eyes.  "  It  is  the  right  thing  for  me  to  do  — 
to  stay  just  here."  Then  the  door  closed  on  her,  and 
he  found  his  way  out  into  the  dark  street. 


One  day  a  year  later  the  Eeverend  William  Imlay 
with  his  wife  passed  the  theatre  in  Baltimore. 

"'Miss  Gertie  Swan  in  her  original  rdle  of  the  Hose 
of  the  Prairies.  Kneedles's  great  Combination! '  "  he 
read.  "I  wonder  where  — '  He  stopped  abruptly. 
Young  Mrs.  Imlay  turned,  smiling,  but  when  she 
looked  at  him  she  stopped  abruptly.  She  had  fine 
tact,  and  seldom  asked  questions. 

A  moment  later  they  met,  coming  out  of  the  theatre, 
a  stout  man  and  a  pretty  little  woman  in  a  Gainsbor 
ough  hat.  Mr.  Imlay  stopped  and  held  out  both 
hands.  (He  was  a  firmer,  more  decided,  stronger 
man  now  in  every  way  than  when  they  had  known 
him.)  "Clara,  here  are  some  old  friends  of  mine," 
he  said.  —  "  Mrs.  Finn,  my  wife.  —  Mrs.  Imlay,  Mr. 
Sperry." 

There  was  a  good  deal  of  hand-shaking  and  curious 
glances  on  both  sides.  The  handsome  bride  was  very 
courteous  and  affable,  though  her  nerves  were  greatly 
shaken.  Actors!  William's  friends!  Could  she 
touch  pitch  and  not  be  denied?  Though,  indeed, 
these  poor  players  really  seemed  to  talk  and  look 
quite  like  other  human  beings. 

Just  before  they  separated,  her  husband  said,  "  Mr. 
Kneedles,  I  see,  has  another  Rose.  Is : —  ?  " 

"You  did  not  hear  about  Janey?"  said  Mr.  Sperry 


ACROSS   THE  GULF  143 

with  a  sudden  sobering  of  his  pompous  manner.  "  X o ! 
-Tell  him,  Emily." 

Mrs.  Finn  did  not  speak.  There  was  an  awkward 
silence. 

"Xo,  I  did  not  hear/'  said  Mr.  Tmlay  loudly. 
Something  in  his  tone  made  his  wife  look  at  him.  She 
put  her  hand  quickly  on  his  arm,  but  he  did  not  see 
nor  feel  her. 

"  Janey  is  gone,"  said  Mrs.  Finn  briefly. 

"  Yes, "  said  Sperry.  "  It  was  that  infernal  Knee- 
dies.  He  saw  the  child  was  ambitious  to  earn  twenty 
dollars  a  week  for  her  father  and  Bob,  and  piled  on 
the  work.  She  took  cold  the  night  you  left.  Me  and 
Emily  warned  her,  but  she  wouldn't  give  up.  Lung- 
trouble.  It  only  lasted  a  week.  It  was  pitiful  to 
hear  her  worry  about  those  two, — Bob's  schooling 
and  the  old  man's  overcoat, — everything.  But  the 
profession  took  it  up;  raised  enough  to  get  the  old 
man  in  an  asylum  and  to  send  Bob  to  college.  Emily, 
here,  has  taken  him  home  with  her  boys.  So  the  poor 
child  died  content.  Yes,  sir,"  said  Sperry,  after  he 
had  looked  around  and  waited  for  somebody  to  speak, 
lifting  his  hat  with  a  little  dramatic  flourish.  "  Yes, 
sir.  Poor  Janey  has  saluted  the  world !  " 

"Come,  George!"  said  Mrs.  Finn  abruptly.  "We 
have  a  train  to  make.  You  forget." 

Mr.  Sperry  was  very  hearty  in  his  adieux,  shook 
hands  twice  with  the  bride  (to  whom  Mrs.  Finn  only 
bowed  with  great  stateliness),  and  drew  Mr.  Imlay 
aside  to  say,  "I'm  sorry  I  told  you  about  poor  Janey. 
I'd  no  idea  it  would  knock  you  up  so.  But  it's  all 
right  with  her  now." 


144  SILHOUETTES   OF  AMERICAN  LIFE 

"Yes,"  said  Mr.  Imlay  with  deliberation.  "It  is 
all  right  with  her  now." 

His  wife  did  not  speak  to  him  until  they  had  walked 
a  long  time  through  the  quiet  streets.  Then  she  said 
gently,  "That  was  a  sad  story.  Very  sad." 

He  made  no  answer. 

"But  what,"  she  persisted,  "can  we  do  in  such  a 
case?  There  is  such  a  wide  gulf  between  us  and  them." 

"Is  there?"  said  Mr.  Imlay,  looking  at  her  va 
cantly. 

She  thought  he  had  not  understood  her,  and  said 
nothing  more. 


A  WAYSIDE   EPISODE 


AYEAK  or  two  after  the  war,  Mr.  Edwin  Woot- 
ton,  of  New  York,  with  his  wife  and  a  gay  party 
of  young  people,  made  an  exploring  journey  through 
the  South.  It  was  his  own  idea,  —  open  spring  wagon, 
camping-equipments,  guns,  fishing-tackle,  and  all,  — 
or,  rather,  he  thought  and  told  everybody  that  it  was 
his  own  idea.  Now  and  then  his  wife  had  a  habit  of 
mentioning  some  plan  as  utterly  impracticable,  where 
upon  he  would  instantly  seize  on  it  and  work  himself 
into  a  fever  to  prove  to  her  that  nothing  could  be 
easier.  After  they  had  carried  it  out  successfully,  he 
would  cackle  over  her  in  triumph  for  months  as  a 
convert  to  his  own  original  scheme. 

"I  never  did  expect,"  said  Mrs.  Penryn-Clay  on  her 
return  from  France,  "  to  find  Emily  Wootton  so  domi 
nated  by  that  fussy  little  imbecile  that  she  has  mar 
ried.  She  is  as  silent,  mild,  and  gentle  as  one  of 
those  model,  cow-like  wives  that  one  sees  in  a  farce, 
but  nowhere  else  in  America.  I  thought  Emily  rather 
clever  as  a  girl." 

"  She  thought  herself  clever, "  replied  Mr.  Erancis- 
cus  (Miss  Fanny,  the  young  people  called  him)  who 

145 


146  SILHOUETTES   OF  AMERICAN  LIFE 

dropped  in  every  day  now  to  talk  over  all  that  had 
happened  in  their  set  while  she  had  been  gone.  "  She 
thought  herself  immensely  clever,  I  assure  yon.  Why, 
Mrs.  Clay,  Emily  Senders  at  seventeen  set  out  to  be 
eccentric,  —  an  Advanced  Female !  Oh,  she  did !  " 

He  giggled,  settled  himself  comfortably  back  in  his 
easy  chair,  and  pushed  his  beard  caressingly  up  through 
his  hand :  "  She  left  the  convent  where  all  the  girls 
were  who  were  to  be  debutantes  that  winter,  and  went 
to  a  Methodist  Female  College.  It's  a  fact,  — Metho 
dist!  Plunged  into  Latin  and  the  sciences.  But  the 
Methodists  soon  proved  to  her  that  she  was  a  dunce. 
Then  she  fancied  that  she  was  an  artist,  and  coaxed 
old  Bonders  to  take  her  to  Italy.  It  took  her  a  year 
to  find  out  she  was  fit  for  nothing  at  that :  so  she  came 
home,  when  her  mother  took  her  in  hand  and  mar 
ried  her  to  little  Neddy  Wootton.  The  old  lady  had 
planned  that  match  when  Emily  was  ten  years  old 
and  Neddy  inherited  his  uncle's  money." 

"  I  am  surprised  to  hear  that  of  Emily.  The  Souders 
always  have  been  conventional  to  the  last  degree. 
They  never  take  a  step  out  of  line,"  said  Mrs.  Penryn- 
Clay,  whose  chief  glory  it  was  that  her  position  lifted 
her  above  all  rules. 

Mr.  Franciscus  poised  the  tips  of  his  long  fingers 
together,  looking  at  them  thoughtfully,  his  face  sober 
ing  into  a  look  of  ferret-like  sagacity.  He  had  a 
sleuth-hound  acuteness  for  nosing  into  the  personal 
peculiarities  of  his  friends.  "Now,  I  don't  think," 
he  said  deliberately,  "  that  that  is  true  of  Emily.  She 
is  a  radical.  There's  fermentation  going  on  under 
that  demure  face  of  hers.  I  suspect  that  it  is  she  who 


A    WAYSIDE  EPISODE  14T 

keeps  Neddy  uneasy  and  perpetually  drives  him  into 
such  queer  starts,  while  the  little  man  is  so  horribly 
afraid  of  violating  propriety.  He  is  running  about 
now  trying  to  find  out  what  everybody  thinks  of  this 
Southern  trip.  'Of  course/  he  says,  'the  proper  thing 
for  us  all  to  do  this  summer  would  be  to  build  at 
Newport.  But  the  cads  are  creeping  in  even  at  New 
port.  I'm  going  to  trees  and  mountains.  You  are  in 
no  danger  from  cads  when  trees  and  mountains  are 
your  companions.7 ' 

The  old  lady  laughed:  "'Cads7?  Poor  Edwin! 
Of  course  your  memory  does  not  go  back  so  far,  but 
I  remember  the  grandfather  "VVootton  distinctly,  —  a 
retail  grocer.  I  have  heard  that  he  went  out  himself 
for  orders,  — white  apron,  cart,  and  all.  P>ut  I  never 
saw  that.  His  son,  Neddy's  uncle,  did  something  in 
sugar  which  brought  in  their  millions." 

"Ned  knows  all  that,  and  knows  that  we  know  it. 
Yet  only  yesterday  he  remarked  to  me  —  actually  to 
me  —  that  blue  and  silver  had  always  been  the  colors 
of  the  Wootton  liveries." 

"  I  thought  there  wras  a  compact  among  all  Ameri 
cans  to  keep  up  these  little  illusions  for  each  other, " 
said  Mrs.  Clay,  smiling  up  into  the  eyes  of  the  ancient 
beau,  with  a  most  significant  lack  of  significance  in 
her  face.  He  tittered  uneasily,  knowing  perfectly 
well  that  she  was  thinking  of  his  uncle  Job  Francis- 
cus,  who  is  a  tanner  in  New  Jersey  to  this  day. 

As  soon  as  Mr.  Wootton  found  that  his  expedition 
was  approved  by  "Miss  Fanny,"  who  echoed  the  opin 
ions  of  society,  he  buzzed  happily  about  his  prepara 
tions.  Underneath  his  snobbishness  he  was  a  generous, 
thoughtful  little  man. 


148  SILHOUETTES   OF  AMERICAN  LIFE 

"We  will  take  my  sister  Jane,"  lie  said  to  his  wife. 
"Poor  Jane!  she  abhors  fashionable  watering-places 
ever  since  her  deafness  came  on.  And  there's  your 
father:  it  will  be  just  the  thing  for  your  father's 
liver." 

"  People  will  mistake  the  wagon  for  an  ambulance, 
and  you  for  an  agent  of  the  Sanitary  Commission," 
said  his  wife  dryly. 

"Tut,  tut!  Well,  I  suppose  that  is  true,"  with  a 
forced  laugh.  He  watched  her  uncomfortably  for  a 
few  minutes.  "  I  thought,  Emmy,  you  would  like  to 
feel  that  you  were  helping  somebody  by  my  wild- 
goose-chase.  But  it's  too  bad  to  bore  you  with  a  lot 
of  invalids." 

She  said  nothing,  and  he  turned  to  his  paper  dis 
contentedly.  A  year  ago  you  could  not  have  bored 
her  by  invalids.  She  spent  half  of  her  time  visiting 
orphan  asylums  and  blind  old  paupers  and  teaching 
in  industrial  schools  for  beggars'  children.  But  she 
had  shut  her  door  on  them  all  one  day,  and  her  heart, 
too,  apparently,  on  all  pity  or  tenderness. 

"  Really,  I  thought  you  would  have  liked  that  plan, " 
he  said  presently,  returning  to  the  charge. 

"  Two  or  three  boys  and  girls  would  be  made  per 
fectly  happy  by  such  a  journey,"  she  said  indiffer 
ently,  "  but  it  would  be  impossible  to  take  them.  The 
trouble  would  be  endless." 

"  No  trouble  at  all !  "  bouncing  up.  "  The  very 
thing!  Your  cousin  Zack,  and  Will  and  Louis  Pet- 
trow,  and  the  Perry  girls !  None  of  them  over  four 
teen.  It  will  be  a  four-weeks  picnic!  I  tell  you, 
Em,  that's  the  best  idea  I  have  had  yet! " 


A    WAYSIDE  EPISODE  149 

He  carried  it  out.  The  children  were  nearer  his 
own  grade  of  intellect  than  men  and  women  would 
have  been;  and  as  for  Mrs.  Wootton,  she  was  very 
happy  with  them.  She  was  an  indolent  young  woman 
at  home,  but  on  this  journey  she  was  a  middle-aged, 
motherly  matron,  fussing  about  their  wet  feet,  doctor 
ing  the  boys  for  coughs,  putting  her  arms  around  the 
girls'  waists  whenever  they  came  near  her.  She  had 
never  had  a  child  of  her  own. 

The  ravages  of  the  war,  especially  in  Virginia,  were 
then  fresh,  and  stared  them  in  the  face  at  every  stage 
of  the  journey.  Mr.  Wootton,  who  had  been  fiercely 
loyal  while  the  struggle  was  going  on,  was  just  as 
intemperate  now  in  his  sympathy  for  the  South. 

"  I  swear,  Emily,  I  feel  personally  responsible  for 
every  burned  barn  or  new-made  grave,"  he  said.  He 
was  perpetually  offering  money  on  all  sides  and  being 
snubbed  for  his  offers.  Another  trouble  he  had,  quite 
as  heavy  as  the  desolation  of  the  South,  —  which  was 
the  fear  that  the  planters  would  mistake  him  and  his 
party  for  ordinary  folk.  He  fraternized  readily  with 
the  mountaineers  or  guides,  and  kept  his  own  impor 
tance  carefully  out  of  sight.  But  when  they  came 
near  a  town  or  a  handsome  dwelling  he  brought  Simon 
the  valet  into  full  view.  Simon  wore  the  blue-and- 
silver  livery. 

"And  I  am  so  thankful  I  had  the  Wootton  crest 
put  on  all  our  trunks !  "  he  said.  "  It  is  unusual, 
to  be  sure,  but  it  impresses  people  at  once.  You  are 
not  careful  enough  about  these  things,  Emily." 

The  young  people  laughed  at  him  among  themselves, 
but  paid  that  exaggerated  homage  to  his  wife  which 


150  SILHOUETTES   OF  AMERICAN  LIFE 

boys  and  girls  are  apt  to  give  to  a  woman  of  beauty 
who  is  a  social  leader  in  the  world  which  they  will 
soon  enter. 

"She  is- too  indifferent  to  be  a  leader  anywhere," 
said  Dora  Perry.  "  She  is  too  indifferent  even  to  lead 
her  husband  or  to  feel  contempt  for  him.  He  would 
simply  drive  me  mad." 

They  had  stopped  at  a  little  inn  at  the  opening  of 
a  gap  in  the  mountains  in  Southwestern  Virginia,  and 
the  girls  were  on  a  porch  looking  up  the  misty  defile. 
Mrs.  Wootton  joined  them  before  Dora  had  finished 
speaking.  The  others  grew  silent,  uneasily,  but  Dora 
said  readily,  "  We  were  just  talking  of  the  qualities 
necessary  to  make  a  leader  in  society.  What  do  you 
think  they  are,  Mrs.  Wootton?  " 

Emily  looked  down  at  the  little  girl's  keen,  intelli 
gent  features,  already  under  better  control  than  her 
own,  and  laughed. 

"  You  will  soon  answer  that  question  better  than  I, 
Dora,"  she  said,  seating  herself  beside  them.  "As 
for  society,  as  you  call  it,  when  I  think  of  it  here  it 
reminds  me  of  one  of  those  glass  boxes  which  you  see 
in  an  apothecary's  window,  in  which  a  few  gold-fishes 
and  minnows  swim  round  and  round,  eying  each  other 
year  in  and  year  out,  and  bumping  their  noses  against 
the  sides." 

"  You  speak  as  if  it  was  a  sort  of  jail !  "  cried  Dora 
indignantly. 

Mrs.  Wrootton  answered  only  with  that  pretty  set 
smile  which  they  thought  so  charming. 

"It  seems  to  me  the  most  desirable  place  in  the 
world, "  persisted  the  girl ;  "  I  mean,  of  course, "  smil 
ing,  "the  glass  case  where  only  the  gold-fish  swim." 


A    WAYSIDE  EPISODE  151 

"Yes.  You,  probably,  will  never  bump  against  the 
sides,"  said  tlie  lady  carelessly. 

Dora  looked  at  her  perplexed  a  minute,  and  then 
said  tartly,  "  How  far  is  Mr.  Woottoii  going  to  take  us 
into  these  dreary  hills?  We  are  leaving  the  large 
plantations  quite  behind  us;  and  I  did  want  to  see 
something  of  the  upper  class  in  Virginia.  Nelly 
Hunter  spent  a  winter  in  Richmond  before  the  war, 
and  she  says  they  were  so  delightfully  exclusive. 
Money  counted  for  nothing.  She  gave  me  letters  of 
introduction  to  half  a  dozen  of  the  old  families.  She 
said,  even  if  I  wasn't  out,  I  might  be  making  desir 
able  social  connections  for  the  future." 

"Very  true,"  said  Emily.  "But,  unfortunately, 
Mr.  Woottoii  intends  to  go  up  farther  into  the  hills." 

Dora  went  into  the  house.  Mrs.  Wootton  sat  look 
ing  up  the  gorge,  over  which  the  sun  threw  slanting 
yellow  streaks,  like  flame,  from  behind  the  opposite 
peak.  The  path  was  narrow,  and  the  overhanging 
hemlocks  on  either  side  nearly  covered  it.  It  led  up 
into  the  ranges  of  the  mountains  beyond,  which 
towered  mysterious  and  inscrutable.  Mrs.  Wootton's 
face  was  turned  toward  them,  and  Zack  Souders  sat 
at  her  feet,  watching  her.  Zack  had  that  admiration 
for  her  which  a  romantic  boy  of  fifteen  usually  cher 
ishes  for  some  woman  old  enough  to  be  his  mother. 
She  took  the  place  of  all  the  heroines  of  whom  he  had 
ever  read  in  poem  and  novel  who  were  lonely  and 
unrecognized  in  the  world.  His  dislike  for  her  good- 
natured,  insignificant  little  husband  was  the  more 
bitter  because  he  had  no  opportunity  to  show  it.  If 
he  could  only  have  proof  that  he  tyrannized  over 


152  SILHOUETTES  OF  AMERICAN  LIFE 

Emily !  If  he  had  any  chance  for  an  outbreak  to  relieve 
her  from  his  cruelty!  Instead  of  that,  Neddy  was 
sure  to  come  tiptoeing  along  presently,  smiling  and 
offering  them  an  open  box  of  caramels.  Zack  was 
always  impatient,  too,  witli Emily's  neat,  nndramatic 
dress.  Its  calm  propriety  never  expressed  any  emo 
tion  whatever.  If  her  hair  were  ever  dishevelled,  or 
if  she  would  only  stretch  out  her  white  arms  wearily 
occasionally,  like  all  the  unhappy  married  women  in 
modern  novels. 

"What  is  it  you  are  looking  for?"  he  said  at  last. 
"  Your  eyes  always  seem  to  me  to  be  searching,  — 
searching  for  something  you  have  lost  out  of  your 
life." 

Emily  laughed.  " Don't  be  melo-dramatic,  Zack," 
she  said,  looking  down  kindly  at  the  boy. 

"Is  it  anything  that  I  can  help  you  to  gain?"  he 
persisted,  his  face  lightening  with  excitement.  "  Tell 
me  what  you  were  wishing  for  then." 

"What  was  I  wishing?  That  I  was  a  squirrel,  or 
fox,  or  wolf,  —  some  wild  creature  that  could  go  up 
that  path  into  the  woods  and  stay  there.  I  should 
like  to  know  what  the  life  of  an  animal  has  in  it." 

At  that  moment  a  man  came  out  from  under  the 
porch  on  which  they  stood,  and  cast  a  quick,  curious 
glance  up  at  her,  then  passed  up  the  street  of  the 
drowsy  little  hamlet.  He  had  a  tall,  sinewy  figure, 
and  was  clothed  in  a  hunting-shirt  made  of  deer-skin, 
and  short  breeches  of  the  same,  covered  with  dust;  on 
his  feet  were  leather  soles  strapped  like  sandals;  his 
knees  and  throat  were  bare  and  tanned  the  color  of  the 
leather;  his  long  red  hair  and  beard  were  untrimmed, 


A    WAYSIDE  EPISODE  153 

and  on  his  head  was  a  cap  made  from  the  skin  of  a 
coyote.  He  went  with  a  steady,  loping  stride  up  the 
gorge,  not  once  looking  back,  — though  the  sight  of  a 
beautiful,  richly-dressed  woman  in  that  corner  of  the 
earth  must  have  been  startling  enough. 

The  hunting-shirt  and  wolf-skin  cap  summarily 
knocked  Zack  headlong  out  of  his  sentiment.  "  Hello !  " 
he  shouted  wildly.  "Is  that  one  of  the  bear-hunters 
from  Tennessee  you  told  me  about?"  leaning  over  the 
railing  of  the  porch  to  call  to  the  innkeeper  below. 

"Xo,  it  ain't.  They  hain't  no  such  lookin7  beasts 
as  that.  He's  no  hunter.  He's  a  rank  stranger. 
Xobody  knows  whar  lie  belongs." 

"Did  you  ever  see  him  before  ?" 

"Yes;  onct  he  come  along  hyar,  about  a  year  ago. 
He  stays  up  in  the  mountings.  ])on't  bring  down 
fish,  nor  skins,  nor  iiothin'.  Hain't  no  call  up  thar, 
as  I  kin  see." 

"  An  escaped  criminal,  perhaps,"  said  Zack  to  Emily. 

Xight  had  fallen  with  a  suddenness  startling  to 
Emily,  who  had  never  lived  among  the  mountains. 
She  strained  her  eyes  to  look  into  the  gorge,  when  out 
of  it  came  a  shout  something  between  a  yodel  and  the 
bay  of  a  hound  nearing  its  prey.  She  fancied  that  it 
broke  out  of  the  sheer  ecstasy  of  the  man  at  plunging 
again  into  the  woods,  and  had  an  odd  feeling  that  it 
was  sent  back  to  her.  It  ended  in  a  high  musical  note 
that  cut  through  the  night-air  and  left  it  more  dead 
than  before. 

"  Hark  to  that  fellow !  "  said  Zack.  "  There  is  your 
wish  fulfilled,  Mrs.  "\Vootton.  How  do  you  like  it? 
He  is  finding  out  what  an  animal's  life  is  like,  pretty 


154  SILHOUETTES   OF  AMERICAN  LIFE 

fairly.  But  I  can't  imagine  you,  clothed  in  skins  like 
the  cave-women,  climbing  mountains  or  swimming 
rivers." 

"No,"  said  Emily,  smiling.  But  what  ailed  her? 
As  she  sat  leaning  over  the  railing,  her  chin  in  her 
palm,  her  thoughts  rushed  out  beyond  her  control. 
Usually  she  held  them  in  check,  even  without  her  own 
knowledge.  The  man  yonder, — there  was  no  law, 
no  rule  of  propriety,  to  hamper  him:  he  could  lose 
himself  in  the  woods  and  shut  the  world  out,  —  wholly 
out.  If  a  man  could  lie  on  the  grass  at  night,  with 
nothing  but  the  rustling  trees  and  stars  overhead,  he 
would  know  if  they  had  any  tiling  to  say  to  him;  that 
is,  if  there  was  anything  to  say  anywhere. 

Down  below  her,  Dora  and  Louis  were  talking 
over  their  last  letters  from  New  York, — how  the 
Courtney s  had  married  Anne  at  last  to  a  rich  Calif  or- 
iiian,  and  how  Betty  Matton  had  a  new  idea  at  her 
reception  in  the  way  of  floral  pillars,  and  how  the 
Perots  had  gone  to  Paris  for  draperies  for  their  draw 
ing-room.  Had  life  anything  to  say  to  her  but  this, 
—  receptions  and  floral  pillars  and  draperies?  She 
had  heard  of  nothing  else  since  her  childhood.  She 
was  walled  into  this  little  world  of  society,  of  gossip, 
of  insignificant  competition  and  more  insignificant 
ideas,  as  into  a  jail-cell.  For  one  day  to  be  alone,  to 
climb  the  mountains,  plunge  into  the  rivers,  to  be 
man,  beast,  anything  that  was  free  to  gratify  its  own 
instincts  and  passions,  good  or  bad!  No  river  had 
water  enough  to  cool  the  heat  in  her  blood.  She  had 
heard  in  church  something  of  the  water  of  life.  God 
knows,  there  was  in  her  a  horrible  thirst.  She  fancied 


A    WAYSIDE  EPISODE  155 

if  she  could  shake  herself  loose  from  every  tie  and  go 
back  to  nature  it  would  be  quenched.  She  sat  quite 
motionless,  the  pretty  smile  fixed  on  her  mouth.  It 
did  not  even  occur  to  her  to  fear  what  Neddy  would 
think  if  he  should  find  out  his  real  wife  under  the 
charming  leader  of  society  whom  he  knew.  He  never 
would  find  her  out.  She  always  felt  as  if  she  were 
wrapped  in  countless  folds  of  deceit  when  she  talked 
to  him. 

Emily  "Wootton  was  not  only  a  fashionable  woman, 
but  by  inheritance  a  strict  sectarian.  She  had  been 
run,  when  a  child,  into  a  mould  of  doctrines,  church- 
going,  and  propriety.  Her  creed,  like  her  grammar, 
her  gowns,  and  her  touch  on  the  piano,  had  been  mod 
elled  on  the  highest  standard  of  the  decorous  and  pious 
suburban  town  where  she  was  born.  Her  Scotch- 
Irish  father  (whom  she  always  remembered  as  seated 
by  the  lamp,  reading  Barnes'  Notes,  in  his  tightly- 
buttoned  coat,  his  gold  spectacles  across  his  lioman 
nose),  —  was  it  any  of  his  blood  in  her  that  prompted 
her  to  run  wild  like  a  stag  or  a  satyr? 

Emily  laughed.  She  had  a  keen  sense  of  the  ridic 
ulous,  unlike  most  women,  especially  when  it  touched 
herself. 

"Did  you  read  that  story  of  the  Maori  chief  the 
other  day?"  she  said  suddenly,  turning  to  Zack. 
"He  had  been  converted  to  houses  and  clothes  and 
civilization,  when  one  day  a  paper  collar  tickled  his 
ear.  He  dragged  it  off  and  trampled  it  under  foot. 
'It's  a  little  lie! '  he  shouted.  'And  all  your  clothes 
are  lies !  And  your  compliments  and  houses  and  trade 
and  talk  of  religion!  All  little  lies! '  And  he  rushed 
back  to  the  wilderness  again." 


156  SILHOUETTES   OF  AMERICAN  LIFE 

Zack  looked  with  a  shrewd  speculation  into  her 
face.  "After  he  turned  savage  was  he  satisfied?"  he 
said.  "Did  he  find  what  he  wanted?" 

"There  is  the  supper-bell,"  said  Mrs.  Wootton,  ris 
ing  and  brushing  the  fallen  leaves  from  her  dress. 
"Will  you  ask  Simon  to  bring  some  of  the  older 
sherry  from  the  wagon,  Zack?  Mr.  Woottoii  did  not 
like  that  which  we  had  for  dinner." 

In  a  week,  Mr.  Wootton  had  pitched  his  camp  up 
among  the  mountains,  far  beyond  the  reach  of  civilized 
intruders.  He  built  a  hut  for  Emily  and  the  girls, 
with  the  help  of  Simon,  who,  when  his  livery  was  laid 
aside,  turned  out  to  be  a  very  handy  Connecticut 
Yankee.  Neddy  and  the  boys  kept  up  a  watch-fire, 
and  slept  over  it  in  turn  every  night,  supposing  that 
they  were  keeping  guard  against  bears  and  panthers. 
They  lived  in  ecstatic  expectation  of  a  leap,  a  growl, 
and  a  fight  for  life. 

"Every  man  likes  to  go  back  and  be  a  savage  at 
times,"  said  Neddy,  rubbing  his  ringed  fingers  as  they 
sat  around  the  camp-fire  one  evening.  "Now,  you, 
Emily,  care  nothing  for  nature :  I  can  see  that.  You 
are  bored.  You  want  to  feel  lace  about  your  wrists, 
and  carpets  under  your  feet,  to  be  comfortable." 

"Yes,"  said  his  wife. 

It  was  true  that  she  was  disappointed.  Nature  had 
no  mysterious  message  for  her.  She  was  often  left 
alone  here  with  the  towering  hills  about  her,  and  the 
gray  old  trees  whispering  together,  and  the  dome  of 
air  above  full  of  color  and  life  and  motion.  She  saw 
that  there  was  an  infinite  quiet  and  content  in  them  all. 
But  she  was  not  quieted  nor  contented  by  it.  What- 


A    WAYSIDE  EPISODE  157 

ever  this  awful  secret  was,  she  had  no  hold  upon  it. 
Tt  was  with  her  precisely  as  when  her  heart  swelled 
with  a  song  that  ought  to  silence  heaven  itself  to  lis 
ten  and  she  uttered  a  cracked  piping  falsetto,  or  as 
when,  years  ago,  she  felt  herself  inspired  with  a  poem, 
and  had  written  miserable  rhymes  —  vapid  and  pre 
tentious. 

"Yes;  I  am  sure,"  she  said  to  Neddy,  "nature  and 
I  have  nothing  in  common." 

"It  is  because  you  do  not  go  to  work  rationally,  my 
dear.  If  you  would  study  geology,  now!  Or  I  could 
give  you  a  few  facts  about  trees,  for  example,  that 
would  make  the  woods  seem  like  a  new  world  to  you. 
There  is  that  cedar,  for  instance.  That  is  the  wood 
out  of  which  the  clothes-chests  are  made.  Capital 
preventive  of  moths.  Or  that  yellow  pine.  It  is 
exported  for  flooring  to — •  Halloo!  What  is  that?" 

A  man  plunging  through  the  thicket  crossed  the 
light  of  the  fire.  He  carried  on  his  back  half  of  a 
deer  freshly  killed.  Mr.  Wootton  and  the  boys 
hurried  to  meet  him.  "You've  had  good  luck  to 
day?"  said  Neddy,  in  the  hearty,  brotherly  fashion 
with  which  he  met  men  who  were  hopelessly  below 
his  class. 

"Oh,  fairish,"  slinging  down  the  venison  and  wip 
ing  his  face.  It  was  the  man  of  the  wolf-skin  cap. 

Edwin  examined  the  meat:  "Perhaps  you  have 
more  than  you  want  of  this  venison?  I  wish  you 
would  sell  me  some  of  it." 

"Sell?"  he  laughed.  "Up  here  money  counts  for 
nothing.  But,"  hesitating,  "I'll  willingly  give  you 
the  venison  for  half  a  dozen  cigars  such  as  that  which 
you  are  smoking." 


158  SILHOUETTES  OF  AMERICAN  LIFE 

"Bring  some  cigar-boxes,  Simon." 

"The  antlers  are  fine.  Will  yon  have  them?"  he 
said,  turning  to  Zack  after  he  had  chosen  the  cigars. 

"Oh,  thank  yon.     But  the  price?     I  don't  smoke." 

"And  I  am  not  in  trade.  Pray  take  them."  And, 
with  a  smile  and  a  nod,  he  disappeared  in  the  thicket. 

"He  speaks  English  like  an  educated  man,"  said 
Zack. 

"He  is  educated  in  cigars,  at  least,"  said  Neddy. 
"He  chose  the  finest  brand.  He's  in  hiding  from  the 
police,  I  suppose.  Murder  or  burglary,  no  doubt. 
What  else  could  drive  such  a  fellow  to  live  like  a 
beast?  But  one  can't  send  word  to  the  authorities," 
staring  with  his  mouth  a  little  open  up  to  the  tree- 
tops  for  the  telegraph-wires  which  were  not  there. 

The  next  day  Mrs.  Wootton  walked  up  the  ravine 
with  her  sketching-book.  Simon  was  in  sight  in  the 
eninp.  The  others  had  gone  down  the  mountain  to 
fish.  After  she  had  been  at  work  awhile,  she  heard  a 
step  behind  her,  and,  raising  her  head,  saw  the  stran 
ger. 

"I  hope  I  did  not  startle  you,  madam,"  he  said, 
removing  his  cap.  "  I  have  something  here  which  I 
thought  you  might  use.  If  you  would  allow  me?"  — 
waiting  for  permission  before  he  came  near  enough  to 
hand  it  to  her.  It  was  a  feather  from  an  eagle's 
wing.  "I'll  tell  you  the  truth,"  he  added  hurriedly : 
"  I  made  this  the  excuse  to  see  you  again.  It  is  three 
years  since  I  have  spoken  to  a  woman." 

Emily's  breeding  did  not  fail  her,  even  in  the 
presence  of  a  possible  murderer  in  this  solitude.  She 
held  out  her  hand  for  the  feather  as  though  she  had 


A    WAYSIDE  EPISODE  159 

not  heard  his  last  words,  her  eyes  brightening  as  she 
took  it.  "I  will  have  it  made  into  a  pen,'7  she  said, 
examining  it  deliberately.  "It  was  good  of  you  to 
bring  it  to  me.  Will  you  sit  down?'' 

lie  took  his  seat  on  the  rocks  before  her.  They 
looked  at  each  other  a  moment,  not  with  the  crude 
curiosity  of  a  savage  and  a  fine  lady  brought  face  to 
face,  but  as  equals  hesitate  in  a  drawing-room,  secretly 
and  swiftly  gauging  each  other  before  they  speak. 
Emily  fully  appreciated  the  difference.  The  man, 
despite  his  uncouth  clothes,  was  clean,  and  his  skin 
ruddy.  He  had  a  cool,  controlled  eye. 

"Did  you  shoot  the  eagle  in  this  range?" 

"  I  did  not  shoot  it.  Whatever  I  may  be,  I  have 
not  the  blood  of  a  bird  on  my  soul,  thank  God.  I 
pulled  the  feather  from  its  wing." 

"  You  climbed  to  its  nest  to  do  it !  " 

"Oh,  that  is  nothing,"  moving  uneasily.  "Any 
boy  in  these  mountains  can  do  that." 

She  was  silent  a  moment.  There  were  no  small 
ideas  common  to  herself  and  this  man  of  the  woods. 

"You  do  not  scruple  to  kill  deer?" 

"I  only  shoot  one  now  and  then  to  keep  myself 
alive.  A  bit  of  meat  satisfies  me  for  weeks.  There 
is  plenty  of  food  in  the  growth  of  the  woods,  if  you 
know  how  to  find  it.  Then  you  have  the  satisfaction 
of  getting  your  living  as  animals  do,  direct  from  the 
earth."  He  watched  her  as  he  spoke,  as  if  trying  the 
effect  of  his  words  on  her.  She  remembered  now  that 
he  had  overheard  her  outburst  to  Zack.  It  had  made 
a  kind  of  secret  understanding  between  this  man  and 
herself,  which  gave  meaning  to  his  words.  It  was 


160  SILHOUETTES  OF  AMERICAN  LIFE 

this  which  had  brought  him  back.  Evidently  he  was 
comparing  his  life  and  thoughts  with  what  he  guessed 
of  hers.  "I,"  he  added,  "came  to  the  woods  because 
there  is  nothing  to  be  sold  or  bought  here,  nothing  to 
be  made  or  lost.  A  man  here  owes  no  duty  to  any 
other  man;  he  can  find  himself  out;  he  gets  back  to 
his  original  conditions." 

"  I  always  supposed,"  said  Emily,  in  her  most  indif 
ferent  voice,  working  diligently  at  her  sketch,  though 
she  was  burning  with  curiosity  to  drag  out  his  secret, 
"  that  only  the  fervor  of  religion  or  a  great  grief  could 
drive  a  man  to  live  as  you  are  doing." 

"  I  had  no  grief.  As  for  religion  —  "  He  stopped 
short.  Presently,  with  a  significant  laugh,  he  said, 
"Why  should  not  a  man  go  to  the  woods  instead  of 
to  Europe  to  hide?  I  have  no  doubt  the  men  of  your 
party  believe  that  I  am  here  to  escape  the  penitentiary 
or  the  gallows." 

Mrs.  Wootton  looked  up  sharply,  her  pencil  uplifted 
in  her  fingers  ready  to  make  a  stroke,  and  scanned  his 
face  steadily  for  a  full  minute. 

"/do  not  believe  it,"  she  said  quietly,  and  finished 
shading  her  leaf.  But  her  heart  thumped  hard  under 
her  shawl.  He  was  no  criminal.  As  honest  a  soul 
as  her  own  looked  back  out  of  his  eyes,  but  there  was 
an  uncertain  gleam  in  them  now  which  frightened 
her.  He  did  not  speak  for  some  time,  and  she  did  not 
look  up  again.  Then  he  got  up  and  leaned  against  a 
tree,  restlessly  pulling  down  the  branches  and  tearing 
off  the  leaves. 

"I  am  here  because  I  was  tired.  I  tried  one 
business  after  another.  I  was  a  bad  artist,  and  an 


A    WAYSIDE  EPISODE  161 

editor,  and  a  teacher;  then  I  went  to  help  Walker 
out  with  his  fight  in  Nicaragua.  I  was  one  of  the 
first  to  go  to  gold-digging  in  California.  I  threw  up 
the  claim  just  as  it  began  to  pay.  I  got  so  tired  I 
couldn't  stay  to  see  it  out.  Then  I  fought  in  the  war 
with  Sherman.  When  the  army  disbanded,  my  peo 
ple  got  me  into  business  in  Philadelphia.  Oh,  they 
thought  I  was  in  luck!  It  was  such  a  fine  opening 
for  a  poor  devil!  But,  great  God!  who  could  stand 
that?" 

Emily  began  to  speak,  but  he  hurried  on  without 
heeding  her : 

"Drudge,  drudge,  day  in  and  day  out!  Give  up 
your  whole  big  life  to  earn  the  food  to  live  with! 
And  the  straight  streets,  and  the  rows  of  red  houses, 
and  the  crowds  of  people  all  drudging  to  keep  them 
selves  alive!  I  was  sick  of  the. whole  miserable  busi 
ness  in  a  month's  time.  The  sight  of  the  crowd  going 
by  —  the  same  man  and  the  same  woman,  with  differ 
ent  noses  and  eyes,  a  million  times  repeated  —  came 
to  be  a  horrible  nightmare  to  me." 

"What  did  you  do?" 

"I  broke  away  from  them.  I  came  here.  You 
don't  stare  at  me  or  think  me  mad,  as  they  did?" 

"No,"  she  said  calmly,  rubbing  out  a  false  stroke. 

"Yet  even  in  the  woods,"  he  said,  after  a  minute's 
silence,  "one  must  strut  and  bear  apart.  I  wear  this 
ridiculous  stagey  toggery  because  it  keeps  men  away. 
The  good  folks  down  in  the  villages  look  on  me  as  a 
Cain,  and  even  the  revenue  officers  fly  if  they  catch 
sight  of  me."  He  laughed,  and  looked  for  the  moment 
like  a  hearty  good  fellow  who  cracked  many  a  joke 
with  himself  alone  under  the  sky. 


162  SILHOUETTES   OF  AMERICAN  LIFE 

"You  do  not  mean  to  stay  here?  You  will  not 
spend  your  life  in  the  woods?" 

"God  knows.  I  cannot  tell  what  I  may  do  to-mor 
row,  any  more  than  any  other  animal." 

Emily  closed  her  book.  Her  fingers  shook,  and  a 
queer  suffocation  came  into  her  throat.  It  was  so 
new  a  thing  to  her  artificial  life  to  come  face  to  face 
with  any  human  being  in  this  way.  If  she  could 
stretch  out  her  hand  to  help  him?  What  did  it  matter 
to  her  whether  guilt  or  madness  had  driven  him  out 
of  the  world? 

"  You  cannot  waste  your  life  here, "  she  said,  invol 
untarily  showing  her  excitement  in  her  voice.  "I 
can  see  that  you  are  a  man  of  power  and  of  education. 
You  have  duties  —  " 

"  Duties?  "  he  laughed  ironically.  "  If  I  went  back 
to  the  world  to-d&y  I  should  find  you  all  glad  to  be 
rid  of  your  duties,  if  you  had  my  courage  to  throw 
them  off.  Don't  I  remember  'society'?  Is  it  any 
different  now?  Don't  men,  generation  after  genera 
tion,  sink  themselves  and  give  up  their  talents  and 
ambition  for  their  children,  who  turn  out  smaller  and 
meaner  than  they  half  the  time?  Don't  clever  women 
tire  of  their  stupid  husbands  and  grope  about  for  con 
genial  souls?" 

"You  are  right/'  said  Emily,  rising,  with  a  ner 
vous  laugh.  "Undoubtedly  you  are  right."  She  did 
not  know  what  she  was  saying.  When  she  heard  his 
last  words,  she  felt  as  if  the  man  had  come  close  to 
her  and  put  his  hands  upon  her.  Edwin  was  coming 
up  the  hill,  and  hurried  forward,  smiling.  She  did  not 
hear  what  he  said.  She  saw  him  talking  to  the  stran- 


A    WAYSIDE  EPISODE  163 

ger,  and  that  they  laughed.     She  herself  spoke.     But 
it  was  all  far  off  from  her,  as  though  she  were  asleep. 

Clever  women  tiring  of  their  husbands,  and  groping 
about  for  —  ? 

She  went  down  through  the  camp  to  a  great  rock  by 
the  creek  and  hid  behind  it.  Now  she  was  alone. 
Nobody  could  drag  out  her  naked  soul  in  public  here. 

Was  it  that  which  ailed  her?  Was  she  tired  of 
her  husband  and  groping  about  for  a  stronger  man  to 
love?  And  it  was  apparent  to  even  this  half -mad 
vagabond? 

Emily  Woottoii  was  a  worldly  woman,  but  she 
had  been  as  pure  and  stern  in  her  wifely  creed  as 
Lucretia.  The  blood  of  generations  of  Scotch  Presby 
terians  flowed  thin  and  tepid  in  her  veins.  She  had 
never  flirted  when  she  was  a  school-girl.  There  had 
not  been  a  spark  of  coquetry  in  her  nature  when 
coquetry  would  have  become  her  age.  Now,  when  she 
was  a  middle-aged  woman,  she  was  groping  for  a  con 
genial  soul !  It  was  but  yesterday  that  she  had  read  a 
popular  novel  in  which  the  American  fashionable 
married  woman  was  depicted  as  a  church-going  Ninon, 
enacting  dramas  of  passion  with  every  man  she  met 
except  her  husband,  and  she  had  flamed  into  righteous 
indignation  at  it  as  an  indecent  libel.  Now  this 
ghastly  portrait  was  set  up  before  her  as  her  own 
likeness.  Was  it  true? 

Mrs.  Wootton  sat  hidden  by  the  thicket.  She  peeped 
out  at  her  husband  as  he  fussed  over  the  camp-fire,  as 
if  she  feared  to  look  at  him.  He  was  fussy  and  con 
temptible  in  many  ways.  She  had  never  told  herself 
so  before.  But  she  saw  it  now.  She  had  never 


164  SILHOUETTES   OF  AMERICAN  LIFE 

realized  that  she  had  married  a  man  less  than  herself. 
She  knew  it  now. 

Was  it  this  that  had  ailed  her?  This  horrible 
emptiness  of  life,  —  was  it  only  the  want  of  a  real 
support,  of  a  live  love?  If  it  were  so?  — 

The  supper  was  ready  long  before  Mrs.  Wootton 
came  up  into  camp. 

"You  are  fagged  out,  Emmy.  Your  clothes  are 
wet  with  the  dew,"  buzzed  Edwin.  "Take  some 
coffee  and  go  directly  to  Led.  Zack  and  Perry  went 
down  to  the  cross-roads  and  brought  up  the  mail.  I'll 
come  and  read  the  letters  to  you." 

"I  don't  care  for  letters.  No,  I  want  no  coffee," 
she  snapped  fretfully,  and  crept  off  into  her  tent.  She 
despised  him,  but  she  loathed  herself.  He  was  petty 
and  shallow,  perhaps,  but  she  —  she  was  like  the  rest 
of  American  Ninons,  ready  for  her  drama  of  love  with 
some  other  man. 

After  an  hour  or  two  the  miserable  woman  began  to 
cry.  "  I  did  not  know  that  I  was  so  bad, "  she  told  her 
self.  "I'm  sure  there  never  was  anybody  else.  But 
it's  all  so  empty,  — empty!  "  She  lay  awake  through 
the  night,  with  her  hands  over  her  face,  unconscious 
of  how  the  time  passed,  until  she  was  suddenly  aware 
that  the  dawn  was  breaking  and  that  Edwin  had  not 
come  into  the  tent.  She  started  up,  threw  on  her 
wrapper,  and  looked  out,  her  heart  heavy  with  guilt. 
The  camp-fire  was  built  some  live  yards  distant.  It 
burned  brightly,  and  her  husband  sat  beside  it  on  a 
log,  a  note-book  open  on  his  knee.  She  went  up  to 
him.  "Why  are  you  here,  Edwin?"  she  said,  her 
voice  hoarse.  "You  wish  to  avoid  me?  You  think 


A    WAYSIDE  EPISODE  165 

we  are  unsuited  to  eacli  other?  You  are  happier 
alone?" 

"Bless  my  soul,  my  dear,  wake  up!  You  don't 
know  what  you  are  talking  about."  He  laughed, 
quickly  closing  the  note-book  and  putting  it  into  his 
pocket.  "Come,  go  back  to  the  tent,  Emily.  It  is 
chilly  and  wet  here."  He  rose  to  lead  her  back,  and 
wrapped  his  coat  about  her.  Something  in  his  man 
ner  struck  her.  It  had  never  been  so  quiet  or  author 
itative.  There  was  a  sense  of  relief  in  it  to  the 
hysterical  woman. 

"Let  me  sit  with  you  here  awhile." 

"  Very  well." 

He  piled  up  the  logs,  wrapped  a  rug  over  her  feet, 
and  sat  down  again :  "  Do  you  see  that  saffron  tinge 
on  the  fog  below?  Just  there  the  sun  comes  up." 

But  his  wife,  with  her  back  to  the  fog,  was  peering 
into  his  face :  "  Something  has  happened,  Edwin,  that 
you  are  keeping  from  me.  What  is  it?" 

He  half  rose,  sat  down  again,  put  his  hand  into  his 
pocket  for  the  note-book,  and  pushed  it  back :  "  You 
have  keen  eyes,  Emily.  It  is  only  a  matter  of  busi 
ness.  I  will  talk  it  over  with  you  when  we  reach 
home, "  he  said,  in  the  quieting  tone  which  a  man  uses 
to  a  fretful  child. 

" No,  now,"  she  persisted.  She  saw  by  the  kindling 
fire  how  pinched  his  features  looked.  "  If  it  is  trouble, 
let  me  share  it.  You  have  always  kept  trouble  from 
me  before, "  with  a  sudden  glow  of  gratitude  when  she 
remembered  how  entirely  he  had  done  it. 

''That  is  only  what  every  man  does,  of  course. 
This,  —  this  —  "  He  began  to  speak  once  or  twice, 


166  SILHOUETTES   OF  AMERICAN  LIFE 

and  stopped,  keeping  an  eager,  anxious  watch  on  her 
face.  "  It  is  Payes  and  Burtman,  Emily.  They  have 
failed.  I  was  a  silent  partner." 

"  Oh !     Then  you  have  lost  —  a  great  deal?  " 

"Everything." 

"Had  you  no  investments  in  Western  lands?  You 
told  me  so  once." 

"In  Nevada.  Mining.  But  I  sold  out  in  May. 
No ;  absolutely  every  dollar  I  own  will  be  swept  away. 
The  partners  are  each  responsible  for  the  obligations 
of  the  firm.  I  never  should  have  gone  into  it.  I 
see  that  now.  But  it  was  done  for  the  best." 

"  I  am  sure  of  that,  Edwin,"  she  said  cordially.  All 
her  strength  and  loyalty  rose  to  support  him.  Through 
the  day  that  followed  she  was  eager,  energetic,  and 
gay,  helping  with  the  hurried  preparations  for  return. 
It  did  not  once  occur  to  her  to  question  whether  she 
loved  her  husband  or  not,  or  to  criticise  him.  She 
had  too  much  else  to  think  of.  They  were  going  to 
be  wretchedly  poor.  There  was  all  that  blank  future 
to  paint  in  her  thoughts.  Mrs.  Wootton  had  no  data 
to  help  her  in  this  work.  Between  the  starved  women 
with  baskets  and  shawls  over  their  heads  who  came 
to  the  back-area  door  at  night,  and  the  mechanic's 
fat  wife  in  her  stingy  purple  silk  and  cotton  gloves  in 
the  back  pews  at  church,  there  was  a  vague  range 
of  life  down  there  below  like  the  circles  in  Dante's 
hell.  She  was  about  to  plunge  down  into  it.  So  far, 
she  felt  nothing  but  exhilaration,  — a  keen  sense  of 
adventure,  as  if  it  were  a  journey  to  Labrador,  or  a  de 
scent  into  a  coal-pit.  Of  only  one  point  she  was  cer 
tain:  she  must  learn  something  of  business.  Being 


A    WAYSIDE  EPISODE  167 

the  stronger  of  the  two,  much  of  the  direction  of 
their  future  course  would  naturally  fall  to  her.  Edwin 
would  be  crushed  by  this  fatal  mistake  and  the  con 
sciousness  of  his  weakness  and  incompetency.  She 
thought  with  delight  how  generous  she  would  be,  how 
seli-sacrificing.  No  matter  how  hard  their  strait  of 
poverty,  not  a  word  of  reproach  should  ever  pass  her 
lips. 

To-day  Edwin  certainly  was  not  crushed.  She 
found  herself,  like  the  others,  working  under  his 
direction.  How  prompt  and  firm  and  cheerful  he  was ! 
She  found  time  to  say  to  him,  "As  soon  as  we  reach 
New  York,  your  better  plan  would  be  to  place  your 
affairs  wholly  in  my  father's  hands.  He  can  bring 
order  out  of  them,  if  possible."  Mr.  Woottoii  glanced 
at  her.  Her  tone  was  slightly  authoritative.  "He 
will  keep  you  from  making  any  more  such  slips,"  she 
added,  smiling  pleasantly. 

"Very  well,  Emmy.     We  shall  see." 

Zack  Souders  was  near  them,  on  his  knees,  packing 
a  gun-case.  When  Edwin  turned  away,  he  blurted 
out  his  thoughts,  as  usual:  "  You  don't  know,  I  see, 
how  Mr.  Wootton  became  entangled  with  Payes  and 
P>urtman,  or  you  would  not  have  said  that.  I  heard 
it  from  my  father  a  year  ago." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  said  Emily. 

"When  you  and  he  were  up  the  Nile,  he  left  his 
affairs  in  your  father's  hands,  with  power  of  attorney, 
and  so  on.  Mr.  Souders  believed  Payes  and  Burtman 
were  going  to  make  millions  in  the  China  trade,  so  he 
sold  out  the  Nevada  investments  and  put  all  your 
husband's  money  into  their  concern." 


168  SILHOUETTES  OF  AMERICAN  LIFE 

"Are  you  sure  of  that?" 

"Quite  sure.  I  heard  my  father  say  then  it  was  a 
terrible  mistake,  and  one  which  Mr.  Woottoii  himself 
would  never  have  made.  He  said,  too,  that  there  was 
no  man  in  New  York  with  a  clearer  head  for  business 
than  Edwin  Wootton.  I  tell  you,"  said  the  boy,  his 
face  flushing  hotly,  "because  I  know  I  have  sometimes 
myself  hardly  been  fair  to  Mr.  Wootton." 

"  He  never  told  me  that  it  was  my  father  that  had 
ruined  him.  And  he  never  would  have  told  me, "  said 
Emily  quietly.  But  throughout  the  day  the  boy  saw 
that  sjie  was  under  the  influence  of  stronger  excite 
ment  than  could  be  accounted  for  by  her  father's  act. 
Her  husband,  who  had  always  been  grateful  for  the 
most  chilly  signs  of  affection  from  her,  was  perplexed 
by  the  silent,  humble,  deprecatory  manner  with  which 
she  hung  about  him.  It  increased  after  they  reached 
New  York  and  conferences  between  him  and  his  part 
ners  took  place,  at  some  of  which  she  was  present. 
Could  this  keen,  clear-headed,  inexorably  honest  man 
be  finical,  snobbish  little  Neddy  Wootton?  It  is  not 
often  that  a  wife  sees  her  husband  as  men  see  him. 
"When  she  does,  it  has  a  lasting  effect  upon  her  for 
good  or  ill.  Emily  had  known  that  Mr.  Wootton  was 
a  kindly,  generous  fellow :  she  thought  of  it  as  part 
of  his  weakness.  She  had  not  known  of  the  broad, 
wise  charities  which  now  first  came  to  light  when 
funds  to  carry  them  on  had  failed,  nor  had  she  recog 
nized  the  prudence  that  managed  them,  nor  the 
simple,  devout  faith  which  had  prompted  them. 

She  waited  for  months  before  she  told  him  that  she 
knew  her  father's  share  in  the  matter,  simply  to  watch 


A    WAYSIDE  EPISODE  169 

liis  expedients  to  conceal  it  from  her  and  to  save  her 
from  pain  or  mortification.  She  felt  a  keen  delight 
at  his  tender  care  of  her,  understanding  for  the  first 
time  that  it  had  been  always  about  her. 

"Why  did  you  hide  that  from  me,  Edwin?"  she 
said,  when  at  last  she  spoke  of  it. 

"  I  knew  it  would  hurt  you  less  to  think  me  in  fault 
than  your  father,"  he  replied  simply;  "and  of  course 
I  wish  to  save  you  all  the  hurt  I  can  now,  Emily." 

If  she  really  had  been  groping  about  her  for  a 
stronger  man  to  lean  upon,  she  knew  now  that  she 
had  found  him.  Fortunately,  Neddy  was  just  then 
too  busy  to  fuss  about  his  sciatic  nerve  or  to  wonder 
what  people  thought  of  him ;  and  as  for  the  coat  of 
arms  and  liveries,  he  had  forgotten  them  in  whet 
stones.  His  old  friend  J.  0.  Tobias,  of  Connecticut, 
had  discovered  an  opening  for  his  whetstones  in 
California,  and  proposed  to  Neddy  to  go  out  as  agent, 
promising  him  a  partnership  if  he  could  make  the 
thing  go. 


Ten  years  later,  some  Eastern  capitalists  who  were 
visiting  the  Pacific  slope  drove  with  a  party  of  San 
Francisco  men  one  afternoon  out  to  inspect  the  Woot- 
ton  seed-farm. 

"Not  Neddy  Wootton  that  I  used  to  know?"  said 
one  of  the  visitors.  "He  was  no  end  of  a  swell,  — a 
poor  fal-fal  creature,  with  not  an  idea  beyond  his 
tandem  and  waxed  moustache." 

"Edwin  Wootton  this  man's  name  is,  and  he  is 
from  New  York.  But  he  is  a  long-headed  fellow ;  — 


170  SILHOUETTES   OF  AMERICAN  LIFE 

never  has  failed  to  see  a  good  chance  nor  to  use  it. 
California  brings  out  the  stuff  in  a  man,  if  there  is 
any.  He's  not  one  of  our  rich  men,  but  he's  a  solid 
one." 

There  was  the  usual  collation  and  speech-making, 
and  then  the  visitors  scattered  about  the  grounds.  A 
party  of  them  met  Mrs.  Wootton  in  the  garden,  and 
were  presented  to  her.  She  showed  them  the  poultry- 
yards  and  colonies  of  bees  that  were  now  a  sort  of 
corollary  to  the  farm,  but  she  did  not  say  that  they 
had  been  begun  by  herself  to  help  her  husband  when 
every  dollar  counted  in  their  weekly  income.  Her 
little  son  trotted  along  beside  her,  holding  her  hand : 
it  was  easy  to  see  that  they  were  comrades.  She  was 
a  tall,  slow-moving  woman,  with  a  low,  feminine 
voice,  and  seemed  for  some  reason  to  impress  the 
visitors  more  than  anything  they  saw,  as  it  Avas  only 
of  her  they  spoke  as  they  drove  back. 

"That  is  a  solitary  life  for  a  woman  of  that  kind," 
said  one.  "She  is  wasted  there." 

"I  doubt  if  she  thinks  so,"  replied  a  friend  of  her 
husband.  "There  is  always  that  singularly  steady, 
tranquil  look  shining  in  her  eyes." 

Somebody  on  the  back  seat  answered  more  energeti 
cally  than  the  occasion  seemed  to  require:  "Because 
she  has  what  she  needed, — work  and  children.  A 
woman  at  a  certain  age  wants  a  baby  to  nurse  and 
something  to  do.  That  is  nature.  It  is  usually 
women  that  have  neither  who  go  groping  about  for 
congenial  souls  or  female  suffrage,  or  some  other 
devilment  to  fill  up  the  gap  in  their  lives." 

"You  speak  as  if  you  had  known  Mrs.  Wootton 
before?"  said  the  man  beside  him. 


A    WAYSIDE  EPISODE  171 

"Yes,"  he  said,  with  a  certain  sharp  bitterness:  the 
tone  did  not  encourage  any  farther  questioning 

A  singular  thing  happened  to  Mrs.  Wootton  that 
evening.  The  visitors  had  all  been  business-men, 
dressed  in  the  usual  morning  garb  of  gentlemen,  and 
strictly  conventional  in  their  behavior;  yet,  when  she 
thought  of  them,  a  steep  mountain-pass,  a  grotesque 
skin-clad  figure,  and  a  sad  face  under  a  coyote  cap 
would  rise  before  her,  and  she  felt  the  old  rebellious 
tug  of  pity  and  kinship  at  her  heart. 

"He  could  not  have  been  among  them,"  she  thought 
uneasily,  for  she  had  deep  down  a  secret  sense  that 
this  vagabond  had  read  her  with  keener  eyes  than  hus 
band  or  child  would  ever  do. 

She  wondered  if  the  poor  creature  had  found  what 
he  sought  in  the  world.  Then  she  hastily  told  her 
self  that  no  doubt  he  had  died  of  cold  and  hunger  in 
some  of  those  gorges  long  ago.  In  any  case,  what  did 
it  matter  to  her? 

Yet  she  had  for  some  time  afterward  a  vague  hope 
and  dread  of  meeting  him  in  some  unexpected  place, 
for  she  was  sure  that  he  was  not  in  any  ordinary 
groove  of  life.  She  scanned  the  faces  of  the  gangs 
of  miners  when  she  passed  them  on  the  streets,  and 
took  to  studying  the  features  of  the  noted,  murderers, 
Arctic  heroes,  and  brilliant  authors  which  were  repro 
duced  in  the  illustrated  journals.  But,  not  finding 
him,  he  soon  died  wholly  out  of  her  memory;  for 
Mrs.  Wootton  was  too  much  absorbed  in  her  children 
to  give  much  thought  to  anything  else. 


MADEMOISELLE   JOAN 


SEVEEAL  years  ago,  ( so  ran  the  school-master's 
story,)  my  doctor  ordered  me  to  break  up  all  old 
associations,  find  my  way  into  some  quiet  place,  and 
there  rest  for  a  year  or  two.  Accordingly,  I  left 
the  United  States,  and  hurry,  and  money-making  be 
hind  me,  crossed  the  St.  Lawrence,  and,  after  long 
and  lazy  loiterings  through  Canada,  settled  down  in 
the  obscure  little  hamlet  of  St.  Kobideaux  upon  the 
shore  of  the  Sa-guenay.  My  chief  business  was  to 
think  of  nothing,  and  to  sleep.  I  lived  there,  if  you 
choose  to  call  it  living,  for  a  year.  St.  Kobideaux 
was  quiet  and  hushed  as  any  moor-hen's  nest  in  the 
reeds.  Nothing  more  active  than  dreams  was  ever 
there  hatched  into  life. 

The  village,  a  cluster  of  gray  cottages  with  steep 
red  and  yellow  roofs,  lay  in  a  hollow  of  the  hills,  up 
the  sides  of  which  wheat-fields  and  orchards  stretched, 
trying  to  warm  themselves  in  the  chilled  sunlight. 
The  river,  cool  and  dark,  flowed  lazily  alongside  of 
the  grassy  road,  which  we  called  Rue  Honore.  There 
is  a  mystery,  as  all  the  world  knows,  in  this  river. 
It  flows  between  solid  walls  of  rock  from  its  spring  to 
172 


MADEMOISELLE  JO  Ay  173 

its  month.  There  are  but  few  breaks -in  these  walls. 
One  was  at  St.  Robideaux,  and  there  the s  sunshine 
and  smiling  fields  crept  down  to  the  edge  of  the 
gloomy  water.  Sometimes  a  lumberman  floated  down, 
on  his  raft  from  the  great  pine  forests  above.  You 
could  hear  him  shouting  to  the  boys,  or  singing, 
"Ay!  ay!  Douce  soeur  Dore!"  until  he  was  out  of 
sight.  The  little  auberge,  with  Repos  des  Voyageurs 
thrust  out  upon  a  creaking  sign  from  the  sycamore 
in  front,  stood  close  to  the  river.  Vain  hospitality! 
No  voyageur  except  myself  came  to  St.  Eobideaux  in 
that  year.  Madame  Baltarre,  when  she  had  finished 
her  work  and  mixed  her  pot-au-feu,  sat,  with  her  knit 
ting,  on  the  gallery  of  the  house,  like  the  other  women, 
and  watched  the  sun  from  day  to  day  as  it  ripened 
the  peas  in  her  garden  below,  or  tinged  and  purpled 
the  pale  green  grapes  on  the  wall.  She  had  abun 
dance  of  leisure.  She  would  look  for  hours  at  the 
low,  bellying  clouds  swooping  down  all  day  long  over 
the  ramparts  of  the  hills,  to  disappear  in  the  gorge 
below. 

The  old  cure  and  M.  Demy  came  up  every  afternoon 
to  bear  me  company  on  my  end  of  the  gallery.  "We 
were  all,  I  think,  of  good  accord :  hence  we  talked  but 
little. 

I  had  brought  several  different  kinds  of  tobacco 
with  me.  It  was  a  solemn  event  when  we  opened  a 
new  package.  We  puffed  our  pipes  in  silence  awhile, 
and,  if  the  flavor  was  good,  we  nodded  to  each  other 
and  loved  the  world  better  than  before. 

"There  were  three  live  people  in  St.  Robideaux 
before  you  came,  monsieur,"  Pere  Drouot  would  say, 


174  SILHOUETTES   OF  AMERICAN  LIFE 

— - "  our  friend  Olave  Demy,  here,  St.  Labadie  and 
myself.  Now  there  are  four.  When  we  talk  with 
you  on  literature  and  affairs,  I  feel  that  my  hand  is 
oil  the  wheel  of  the  great  machine  yonder." 

The  "literature"  which  we  discussed  was  an  occa 
sional  two  months  old  copy  of  the  London  "  Times  " 
which  the  cure  produced  to  enliven  my  exile. 

"  I  have  a  friend  in  Quebec  who  occasionally  sends 
me  this  great  sheet,"  he  would  say.  "You  will  have 
heard,  perhaps,  that  it  is  called  the  <  Thunderer '  in 
England?  Ah,  $a,  $a!  What  a  world  we  live  in! 
The  sweep  of  it  quite  takes  away  my  breath !  "  and  he 
would  gaze  with  awe  at  the  yellow  page,  fold  it  care 
fully,  put  it  into  his  pocket,  and  light  his  pipe  again. 

The  "  affairs  "  which  occupied  us  were  the  ripening 
of  the  cure's  corn  or  the  condition  of  the  hay  in  St. 
Robideaux  parish.  In  the  morning  we  usually  sat 
under  the  great  cedar  in  the  cure's  garden,  to  discuss 
the  effect  of  that  day's  weather  on  these  crops;  and 
in  the  afternoon,  when  the  sun  came  around  to  the 
gallery  of  the  inn,  we  migrated  to  it  and  talked  it  all 
over  again.  No  one  was  offended  if  the  others  occa 
sionally  dropped  into  a  doze. 

Sometimes,  but  not  often,  we  spoke  of  the  river, 
but  then  we  lowered  our  voices.  It  seemed,  for  some 
strange  reason,  a  live,  malignant  thing  which  it  might 
be  as  well  not  to  offend. 

"It  does  not  seem  to  me,"  M.  Demy  said  once,  "to 
belong  to  God's  world." 

The  cure  laughed.  "Ah!  that  is  the  story  you 
heard  when  you  were  a  child!  "  he  said.  Then  with 
sudden  gravity  he  remarked,  "  It  is  quite  true,  mon- 


MADEMOISELLE  JOAN  175 

sieur,  that  it  is  like  no  other  water  on  earth.  It  is 
fathomless  in  certain  parts;  absolutely  bottomless. 
Hence  there  has  arisen  a  suspicion  that  it  may  lead 
in  these  crevices  to  the  under  world.  That  we  are 
nearer  the  —  the  land  of  the  unblessed  here  than  any 
where  else  in  the  world." 

The  brief  hot  summer  crept  in  these  friendly  confi 
dences  slowly  away,  and  the  briefer  high-colored 
autumn  began  to  be  whitened  with  frost.  M.  Labadie 
now  came  sometimes  to  smoke  a  pipe  with  us.  His 
summer's  work  was  over;  his  harvest  having  gone 
down  the  river  in  two  great  cases  on  the  last  raft. 
All  the  village  assembled  to  see  it  go,  and  most  of 
the  lookers-on  fervently  threw  the  sign  of  the  cross 
after  it  for  good  luck.  Everybody  was  a  friend  to 
M.  Labadie. 

"There  is  no  such  honey  in  all  America,"  said 
Madame  Baltarre.  "  It  is  the  pure  juice  of  the  flow 
ers." 

The  little  farm  of  the  bee-grower  lay  a  mile  or 
two  north  of  the  village:  its  only  crops  were  white 
clover  and  violets.  The  old  gray  house  with  its  steep 
red  roof  rose  out  of  the  gardens.  The  sun  always 
shone  there,  and  the  air  was  heavy  with  perfume; 
there  was  no  sound  but  the  buzzing  of  the  black,  gold- 
banded  Italian  bees,  darting  here  and  there  through 
the  sweet  clover.  Nature  in  St.  Eobideaux  slept, 
with  long,  full,  quiet  breaths;  but  in  the  old  bee-farm 
she  woke  with  a  cheerful  smile. 

M.  Labadie,  according  to  Pere  Drouot,  was  the  only 
one  of  the  inhabitants  "of  education."  He  was  even 
more  silent  than  the  other  slow-speaking  villagers; 


176  SILHOUETTES  OF  AMERICAN  LIFE 

but  in  the  matter  of  bees,  at  least,  I  found  him  learned, 
full  of  facts  and  humorous,  keen  observations.  His 
bees  were  entirely  human  to  him,  always  spoken  of 
as  "Messieurs";  a  shrewd,  intelligent  race,  with 
whom  he  had  been  allied  by  business  relations  and 
friendship  for  forty  years. 

On  Sundays  I  used  to  watch  for  the  tall,  stooping 
figure  of  the  bee-grower,  clothed  in  a  brown  frogged 
surtout  made  twenty  years  ago,  as  he  came  down  the 
road  to  church,  leading  his  girls,  Rose  and  Jose 
phine,  by  the  hand.  After  mass  Avas  over  the  three 
would  stop  to  shake  hands  and  chatter  with  their 
neighbors,  and  then  they  would  betake  themselves  to 
a  sunny  corner  of  the  churchyard,  where  a  grave, 
apart  from  all  others,  was  covered  with  white  clover 
and  violets.  The  bees  hummed  over  it  all  day  long. 
They  would  kneel  there  to  say  a  prayer;  and  then  seat 
themselves  on  a  low  stone  bench,  near  by,  to  eat  their 
little  gdteaux  for  the  noon  meal. 

I  joined  them  one  warm  afternoon,  and  observed 
that  when  anything  of  interest  was  said  they  glanced 
eagerly  to  the  grave,  as  if  some  unseen  listener  hid 
there.  Little  Josephine,  with  whom  I  had  an  old 
friendship,  whispered  to  me,  nodding  downward,  — 

"C'est  ma  chere  mere  She  expects  us  on  the  Sun 
day  afternoon." 

Then  M.  Labadie,  his  gnarled  face  a  shade  paler, 
explained  to  me  in  laborious  English  that  it  would 
have  been  their  comfort  to  keep  her  at  home :  in  the 
garden,  par  exemple,  which  was  her  joy,  or  in  the 
orchard,  where  were  her  seat  and  work-table  under 
the  great  plum-tree  for  thirty  years.  But  that  was 


MADEMOISELLE  JOAN  177 

not  ground  consecrated.  "So  it  is  that  she  lies  here, 
monsieur,"  waving  both  hands  downward.  "But  it  is 
her  own  violets  and  clover  that  grow  here ;  and  men 
amis,"  looking  at  the  bees  and  lowering  his  voice, 
"they  do  not  forget;  they  are  always  with  her." 

A  few  weeks  after  this,  one  cold  November  day,  M. 
Labadie  consented  to  remain  with  my  other  friends, 
to  share  my  supper  of  a  fricassee  of  bacon,  potatoes, 
and  chives,  and  brown  bread.  Madame  Baltarre's 
coffee  was  hot  and  delicious,  and  we  sat  about  the 
table,  which  she  had  drawn  up  to  the  great  open  fire 
after  supper,  sipping  it  thoughtfully,  while  she  re 
moved  the  dishes  and  set  the  apartment  to  rights. 
There  was  another  fireplace  in  the  long,  low  room,  and 
when  she  had  finished  she  pinned  a  fresh  white  apron 
over  her  snuff -colored  gown,  and  sat  down  beside  it, 
at  her  sewing.  The  red  glow  of  the  firelight  twinkled 
on  the  white  floor,  the  old  mahogany  ar moire,  the 
picture  of  the  Child  Jesus  with  a  bleeding  heart,  and 
the  shelves  full  of  red  cups  and  plates.  A  heavy  snow 
had  fallen  that  day,  and  the  lonely  white  stretches 
outside  of  the  window  and  the  flat  graying  sky  made 
the  warmth  and  snugness  within  more  cheerful.  We 
all  felt  it.  The  cure  flung  another  log  on  the  fire, 
opening  up  red  deeps  of  heat;  we  pulled  our  chairs 
closer.  Olave  Demy  was  persuaded  to  tell  about  the 
October  bear-hunt  again;  the  cure  sang  a  plaintive 
ballad  in  Canadian  patois,  with  a  voice  like  a  fine 
cracked  flute ;  and  I  adroitly  turned  the  talk  so  as  to 
bring  in  some  of  my  own  best  stories.  They  had 
immense  success.  The  French  habitant  has  a  hungry 
curiosity  about  everything  belonging  to  "the  States." 


178  SILHOUETTES  OF  AMERICAN  LIFE 

It  is  to  him  what  Europe  is  to  the  untravelled  Ameri 
can. 

"M.  Labadie,"  said  the  cure,  "is  the  only  person 
in  St.  Robideaux  who  has  been  to  the  States.  Before 
you  came,  monsieur,  he  used  every  day  to  give  us  of 
his  experience  in  that  great  country." 

M.  Labadie  adjusted  his  waistcoat  and  looked  into 
his  cup  with  a  vain  attempt  at  unconsciousness. 

"  You  travelled  in  the  West,  monsieur,  —  in  the 
South?" 

"I  did  not  penetrate  so  far  as  I  had.  purposed,"  he 
said  gravely,  for  the  subject  was  too  weighty  to  be 
approached  carelessly.  After  sipping  his  coffee  criti 
cally  awhile,  he  continued:  " It  was  not  I,  monsieur. 
Madame  Labadie,  my  little  Jeannette,  she  had  ambi 
tions  for  me.  She  said  when  we  were  first  married, 
'  You  must  visit  the  States.  You  must  see  the  world, 
Georges/  But  the  children  came  fast, — one,  four, 
six,  eleven.  I  had  then  but  few  colonies  of  Messieurs 
my  friends,  to  keep  soup  in  the  pot.  Sometimes 
there  was  no  soup.  But  Jeannette  still  cries,  'You 
must  go  to  see  the  world.  There  are  bee-farms  in 
Massachusetts,  in  Cincinnati,  in  California.  You 
must  visit  them  all.' 

"  Bien,  the  children,  they  grow,  they  leave  us,  they 
sicken  and  come  home,  some  of  them,  to  die.  We 
have  only  Rose  and  Josephine  left.  But  in  all  these 
years  Jeannette  lays  by  money  secretly,  sou  by  sou. 
Then  she  gives  it  to  me.  f  Go,  mon  ami, '  she  says, 
—  'go  to  California,  to  Florida.  See  all  the  bee- 
farms  in  that  great  country.'  I  could  not  balk  her, 
monsieur.  She  had  worked  for  it  for  thirty  years.  I 
went." 


MADEMOISELLE  JOAN  179 

"To  California?" 

"Xo;  I  did  not  even  reach.  Le  Xiagarra,  which  I 
had  hoped  much  to  see."  He  set  down  his  cup  ner 
vously.  "Travelling  in  the  States  is  more  expensive 
than  we  supposed.  I  was  careful,  most  careful.  But 
when  I  reached  Utica,  on  the  second  day,  I  found  my 
money  would  just  take  me  back  home  again.  But  I 
had  already  seen  much  in  the  States  to  please  and 
benefit  my  family." 

"  And  your  neighbors !  "  exclaimed  the  cure  zeal 
ously. 

"  That  you  did,  monsieur.  How  many  winter  nights 
have  we  sat  here,  hearing  of  that  journey!"  added 
Olave. 

M.  Labadie  stood  up  to  go,  still  smiling  and  pleased 
with  these  compliments.  The  night  had  fallen  while 
we  talked.  As  he  drew  on  his  old  shawl  and  tied  it 
about  him,  an  odd  thing  happened.  Since  nightfall 
the  wind  had  risen,  fitful  and  gusty.  It  blew  now 
suddenly  through  the  gorge  with  a  shrill  cry. 

M.  Labadie,  at  the  sound,  stopped,  listening.  His 
pleased  face  became  strained  and  ghastly.  The  cure 
and  M.  Demy,  too,  hearing  this  most  commonplace 
natural  noise,  had  started  forward  to  the  old  bee- 
grower,  as  if  to  protect  him.  They  stood  breathless 
a  moment,  watching  the  window,  which  was  now  but 
a  square  patch  of  gray  darkness,  as  though  they 
expected  to  see  a  face  there. 

While  I  looked  on,  astonished,  the  wind  boister 
ously  rattled  the  window-panes  and  the  creaking  sign 
outside.  The  cure  and  M.  Demy  gave  uneasy,  foolish 
laughs,  and  sat  down,  apparently  relieved.  But  M. 


180  SILHOUETTES   OF  AMERICAN  LIFE 

Labadie  was  greatly  shaken.     His  lower  jaw  trembled 
like  that  of  a  paralytic. 

"  It  is  only  the  wind,  ha?  It  had  —  it  had  the  effect 
of  a  call.  I  thought  I  heard  my  name." 

"Ah,  bah,  monsieur!  Yon  heard  no  call.  It  was 
that  villainous  norther.  I  will  walk  home  with  yon, 
if  yon  will  allow  me.  Only  to  stretch  my  legs,"  said 
Clave  Demy.  After  they  had  said  adieu,  he  tucked 
the  old  man's  arm  under  his  own,  and  led  him  away. 

"What  does  it  all  mean?"  I  asked,  after  the  cure 
and  I  had  puffed  away  at  our  pipes  awhile  in  silence. 

He  answered  reluctantly:  "It  is  an  old  story,  a 
singular  occurrence." 

Madame  Baltarre  came  up  close  beside  us.  Her 
fat,  placid  face  was  pinched  and  blue,  as  with  cold. 

"You  had  better  leave  your  stories  and  singular 
occurrences  until  daylight,"  she  muttered  angrily; 
"nobody  knows  who  hears  you  now."  She  threw  out 
her  fore-fingers,  crossing  them. 

Pere  Drouot  shot  one  uncomfortable  glance  at  the 
window,  and  then  asserted  his  position. 

"II  ne  faut  pas  faire  les  comes.  Go  to  rest,  my 
daughter.  Be  tranquil.  We  will  await  M.  Demy's 
return." 

Madame  bade  us  good  night,  and,  gathering  up  her 
sewing,  went  quickly  clattering  up  the  stairs. 

We  smoked  on  without  speaking,  the  cure  reflec 
tively  watching  the  smoke  from  his  pipe  as  it  drifted 
into  the  chimney ;  and  it  was  not  until  M.  Demy  had 
returned  and  taken  his  seat  that  he  broke  the  silence, 
speaking,  as  he  always  did  when  much  moved,  in 
Canadian  French. 


MADEMOISELLE  JOAN  181 

"  It  certainly  was  a  singular  occurrence,  monsieur; 
possibly,  easy  to  explain  by  some  scientific  law,  but  / 
never  have  been  able  to  explain  it.  I  should  like  to 
lay  it  before  you  for  your  opinion.  It  happened  in 
this  way :  — 

"  Six  years  ago,  in  April,  a  voyageur  arrived,  like 
yourself,  in  St.  Robideaux, —  a  woman,  a  widow,  of 
about  forty  or  fifty  years;  an  unpleasantly  white 
woman,  with  puffy  fair  skin  which  looked  as  if  water 
was  below  it,  light  gray  eyes,  faded  yellow  hair.  La 
Veuve  Badleigh  lodged  here  with  Madame  Baltarre. 
She  was  soon  known  to  all  the  village.  In  every 
house  I  would  find  this  fat  person,  in  her  unclean 
yellow  gown,  with  big  paste  diamonds  in  her  ears, 
pouring  out  flatteries  to  women  and  men  with  the  ges 
tures  of  an  excitable  young  girl,  while  her  cold  eyes 
kept  a  keen  watch  from  under  their  thick,  half-shut 
lids.  All  my  people  cried  out,  'Oh  how  pious,  how 
friendly,  she  is,  this  Veuve  Badleigh!'  But,  mon 
sieur,  when  I  see  the  finger-nails  of  a  woman  not  clean, 
and  her  shoe-laces  untied, "  -  —  the  good  father  shook 
his  head,  —  "  something  is  wrong  in  her  soul.  Bien ! 
The  one  place  where  I  found  her  most  often  was  on 
the  gallery  of  M.  Labadie's  house.  There  she  sat  in 
the  sun.  She  was  enraptured  with  the  sun,  with  the 
old  house,  with  the  fields  of  white  clover  and  violets; 
she  lapped  up  honey  as  a  cat  does  cream ;  she  caressed 
Rose  and  Josephine.  I  protest,  monsieur,  my  flesh 
crept  when  I  saw  her  thick  fingers  paddling  with  the 
little  hands  of  the  children.  M.  Labadie  sat  beside 
her,  telling  her  of  Messieurs  the  bees,  of  the  witty 
sayings  of  Rose  and  Josephine,  and  of  his  wife,  poor 


182  SILHOUETTES   OF  AMERICAN  LIFE 

Jeannette,  with  tears  streaming  from  his  eyes.  Well, 
well,  monsieur,  you  know  what  occurs  when  a  man 
talks  to  another  woman  of  his  wife,  with  the  tears 
streaming !  In  September  they  were  married. "  Fere 
Drouot  shrugged  his  shoulders,  spreading  out  both 
hands.  "Ah-a!  No  sooner  was  Veuve  Badleigh 
established  in  the  easy-chair  on  the  porch,  in  the  sun, 
mistress  of  the  house,  the  bees,  the  little  girls,  and 
poor  M.  Labadie,  than  presto!  all  is  changed! 

"  I  know  not  what  went  on  there.  Nobody  has  ever 
known.  M.  Labadie  was  poor,  as  all  we  others.  One 
does  not  raise  and  clothe  and  feed  and  nurse  and  bury 
so  many  little  ones  by  the  help  only  of  a  few  bees, 
and  meantime  live  on  meat  and  white  bread,  like  a 
governor-general.  My  faith,  no!  The  table  and 
clothes  of  our  friend  had  always  been  scant  and  poor. 
But  he  was  never  in  debt,  not  a  penny.  Yet  in  six 
months  after  his  second  marriage  he  had  mortgaged 
his  farm  to  raise  money  for  the  new  yellow  gowns  and 
rich  plats  of  madame !  Ah,  monsieur,  it  was  execra 
ble!  St.  Robideaux  was  convulsed  with  rage  and 
pity.  But  we  kept  silent,  such  regard  have  we  for 
M.  Labadie. 

"  Alas !  this  was  nothing  to  that  which  was  to  come. 
A  young  man  appeared  in  the  village,  a  vulgar  fellow, 
lean,  pimpled,  loud-talking,  dressed  in  the  New  York 
fashion.  His  oaths  and  his  jokes  made  the  very  air 
of  the  street  filthy.  He  was  Paul  Badleigh,  son  of 
madame.  She  had  not  told  M.  Labadie  of  this  son 
until  he  appeared.  He  swaggers  about  the  bee-farm, 
he  makes  servants  of  Rose  and  Josephine,  he  swears 
at  their  father.  Was  he  her  son?  Ah,  monsieur, 


MADEMOISELLE  JOAN  183 

how  can  I  tell?  Sometimes  I  think  he  is  a  thief,  a 
vaurien.  I  know  him  to  be  a  drunkard  and  a  gambler, 
and  she,  perhaps,  is  an  accomplice.  But  how  can  I 
tell? 

"  So  the  autumn  goes,  and  the  winter  comes.  Paul 
l>adleigh  had  been  drinking  hard,  and  was  not  able  to 
leave  the  farm.  The  Veuve  Badleigh  (I  never  could 
bring  myself  to  call  her  Madame  Labadie)  came  into 
the  village  at  times,  more  unclean,  more  watchful, 
than  ever.  She  did  not  take  the  trouble  now  to  flatter 
the  poor  villagers ;  she  had  reaped  her  harvest. 

"Rose  and  Josephine  came  in  to  mass,  the  thin, 
scared  little  creatures.  When  they  met  their  old 
friends,  they  ran  past  like  guilty  things.  The  shame 
of  that  woman  and  of  her  foul  son  was  upon  the  chil 
dren." 

"As  to  M.  Labadie,"  interrupted  Olave  Demy,  "he 
never  came  into  the  village,  not  even  for  mass.  The 
humiliation  was  too  heavy  upon  him." 

"I  met  him  once  on  the  road,  near  the  church," 
said  Pere  Drouot ;  "  but  he  crept  out  of  sight,  as  if  he 
were  the  thief  and  gambler.  When  he  passed  the 
churchyard  he  turned  his  head,  that  he  might  not  see 
his  poor  Jeannette's  grave."  He  sighed,  sipped  his 
coffee,  and  continued :  — 

"It  was  about  this  time,  monsieur,  that  my  friend 
Olave  and  myself  were  sitting  here  by  the  fire,  just  as 
now,  one  cold  evening.  The  wind  was  blowing  a 
hurricane.  Suddenly  it  sounded,  as  to-night,  with  a 
shriek  down  the  gorge,  and  then  came  a  sharp  tap  on 
the  window,  another  and  another,  as  of  a  person  in 
great  haste.  Then  the  door  was  pushed  open,  and  a 


184  SILHOUETTES   OF  AMERICAN  LIFE 

woman  entered,  throwing  quick,  keen  glances  before 
lier.  She  was  a  dark,  lean  little  body  — 

"Clean,"  said  M.  Demy  emphatically,  between  the 
pnffs  of  his  pipe. 

"  Yes,  noticeably  clean  and  trig.  She  always  looked 
like  an  officer  buckled  up  for  action.  She  ordered 
supper  and  a  room,  and  then  she  stood  by  the  tire 
knocking  off  the  snow,  sharply  scanning  M.  Demy  and 
myself. 

"'You  are  a  priest,'  she  said  presently.  'You 
know  the  people  among  these  hills.  Have  you  by 
chance  met  a  woman  named  Badleigh,  in  your  jour 
neys?' 

"  Madame  Baltarre  carried  the  word  from  me.  'She 
is  here,7  said  she,  nodding  with  meaning. 

"'Ah!  here?7  The  woman  looked  from  one  to  the 
other.  She  waited  as  if  she  expected  bad  news,  a 
charge  or  accusation. 

"'She  is  married,'  said  madame,  'to  M.  Labadie, 
one  of  the  oldest  and  foremost  citizens  of  St.  Bobi- 
deaux.; 

"'God  pity  us!'  cried  the  stranger.  'Married! 
This  is  too  much ! ' 

"As  she  stood  looking  into  the  fire,  I  noted  her 
closely.  She  had  the  expression  of  an  honest,  right- 
minded  woman.  But  the  obstinacy,  the  determina 
tion,  in  her  insignificant  features!  Monsieur,  she 
could  have  driven  a  hundred  men  before  her  into 
battle. 

"She  coughed  violently  now  and  then.  I  am  some 
thing  of  mediciner,  and  I  saw  that  her  hold  on  life 
was  weak  and  would  be  short. 


MADEMOISELLE  JOAN  185 

"  Olave  went  home  presently,  and  Madame  Baltarre 
left  the  room.  Then  she  turned  on  me. 

"  'You  are  a  man  of  God/  she  said.  'You  ought  to 
help  me.  What  has  she  done  here?  There  is  no 
time  for  mincing  matters.  I  am  her  sister  Joan.  I 
am  responsible  for  her.'  She  rubbed  her  wrists 
nervously  as  she  talked,  exposing  her  thin,  bloodless 
arms.  'I  have  not  much  time  left  in  which  to  control 
her.' 

"  I  answered  her  gently  that  I  knew  nothing  definite 
of  the  Veuve  Badleigh,  but  that  I  feared  the  marriage 
had  not  been  a  happy  one  for  M.  Labadie  and  his 
little  girls. 

"'There  are  children?  And  little  girls! '  she  cried, 
starting  up.  'Come!  I  must  go  at  once.  You  will 
show  me  the  way?' 

"  It  was  a  cold  night,  but  the  road  was  free  from 
snow.  She  hurried  on  in  silence,  but  the  quick  motion 
brought  on  a  racking  cough.  'You  are  not  fit  for  this 
work,  mademoiselle,'  I  said,  kindly. 

"  The  poor  creature  was  touched.  She  began  to  cry, 
like  any  sick,  tired  woman.  'It  is  all  I  have  to  do 
now.  But  I  shall  be  done  with  it  all  and  go  soon,' 
she  said.  We  did  not  speak  again  until  wre  reached 
the  gate  before  M.  Labadie's  house.  A  man's  voice 
was  howling  out  some  drunken  song  within.  She 
stopped.  'Who  is  that?' 

"'It  is  her  son,  M.  Paul  Badleigh,'  I  said. 

"She  stood  quite  still  a  moment.  'I  must  go  in 
alone.  It  is  worse  than  I  thought, '  she  said. 

"  I  watched  until  the  door  shut  behind  her,  and  came 
home,  sure  of  but  one  thing,  — that  whatever  she  had 


18C  SILHOUETTES  OF  AMERICAN  LIFE 

to  do  must  be  done  quickly.  She  was  marked  with 
death. 

"  The  next  day  Madame  Baltarre  sent  up  her  port 
manteau,  which  came  with  her  on  the  boat,  and  we 
heard  nothing  more  from  the  bee-farm  for  a  month. 
Then,  one  evening,  little  Rose  came  for  me.  Made 
moiselle  Joan  was  dying.  The  child  cried:  the 
woman  had  been  kind  to  her,  and  she  needed  kind 
ness.  i  She  is  not  Catholic,  but  she  will  see  you, 
father,7  the  little  one  said,  holding  my  hand  as  she 
trotted  along  by  my  side. 

"The  Veuve  Badleigh  sat  at  one  side  of  the  bed, 
and  her  son  at  the  other,  watching  every  breath  of 
the  dying  woman  with  ill-suppressed  triumph.  She 
pulled  her  life  together  to  speak  to  me.  'They  think 
they  will  be  free  now,'  she  whispered,  pointing  to 
them.  'My  sister  has  done  great  harm  in  the  world, 
but  I  —  > 

"  Veuve  Badleigh  thrust  a  cup  to  her  mouth.  'Drink 
this  medicine/  she  said.  The  flabby  white  creature 
trembled  with  fear  of  exposure. 

"I  put  her  back,  and  lifted  her  sister,  that  she 
might  get  her  breath.  'God  forgive  them! ;  she  cried. 

"  This  was  an  hour  before  she  died.  In  that  time  I 
gathered  from  her  that  for  ten  years  she  had  held 
these  two  in  check;  that  after  she  was  gone  it  was 
their  purpose  to  bring  some  nameless  disaster  on  the 
children,  Eose  and  Josephine;  that  she  had  sent  for 
me  to  warn  me  of  their  danger.  She  lay  still  for  some 
moments;  she  had  almost  ceased  to  breathe.  A  look 
of  satisfaction  and  relief,  terrible  to  see,  came  into 
both  the  faces  bent  over  her. 


MADEMOISELLE  JOAN  187 

"  Her  eyes  opened ;  she  saw  it. 

"  Monsieur,  she  was  a  small,  insignificant  woman, 
but  the  soul  going  out  of  her  body  was  inexorable.  It 
was  that  of  a  great  fighter.  She  held  them  with  her 
eyes ;  she  raised  herself  slowly  in  the  bed. 

"'You  shall  not  hurt  those  children.  You  shall 
both  —  come  with  me. ' 

"Before  the  words  passed  she  was  pulseless.  It 
was  as  if  the  soul  had  spoken  out  of  a  dead  body." 


"Is  that  the  end?"  I  asked;  for  the  cure  had 
stopped,  and  was  mechanically  puffing  his  pipe,  which 
had  gone  out. 

"Xo,"  said  M.  Demy,  "it  is  not  all,  monsieur. 
But  that  which  follows  is  so  strange,  so  incredible, 
that  one  fears  to  tell  of  it.  All  the  village  know  it 
to  be  true,  yet  it  is  never  mentioned  among  us." 

I  waited  in  silence,  and  after  a  while  the  cure  said :  — 

"  I  will  tell  you  briefly  the  facts,  monsieur,  and  you 
must  make  from  them  your  opinion.  I  interfered  on 
behalf  of  the  children,  but  M.  Labadie  was  obstinate. 
Xo  harm  was  coming  to  them,  he  averred.  His  wife 
wanted  their  companionship.  I  had  no  proof  against 
her  or  her  son;  only  the  vague  accusations  of  a  dying 
woman,  which,  after  all,  might  be  prejudice.  Two 
weeks  passed  when  —  M.  Demy,  you  will  correct  me 
if  I  mistake  in  the  facts?" 

M.  Demy  rose  nervously,  and  stood  in  front  of  the 
fire.  "You  are  correct  so  far,  father.  It  was  just 
two  weeks,  — a  cold,  still  night." 

"Xot  a  breath  of   wind  blowing,"   said  the  cure. 


188  SILHOUETTES   OF  AMERICAN  LIFE 

"We  were  sitting  about  the  fire  here  with  two  or 
three  other  neighbors.  Paul  Badleigh  lay  on  that 
bench  yonder.  He  had  been  drinking  heavily,  and 
was  asleep.  Suddenly  a  high,  keen  wind  swept  down 
the  gorge,  with  a  shrill  sound  like  a  cry.  Badleigh 
stopped  snoring,  and  sat  up,  staring.  Then,  mon 
sieur,  there  was  a  stroke  on  the  window;  another,  and 
another,  sharp,  —  decisive.  We  all  heard  it  —  " 

"And  words,"  amended  M.  Demy. 

"And  words.  What  they  were  none  of  us  could 
make  out,  but  Badleigh  understood  them.  He  got 
up,  and  went  staggering  to  the  door. 

"'I  am  coming,'  he  said. 

"We  never  saw  him  alive  again.  The  next  morn 
ing  he  was  found  at  the  foot  of  the  Peak  Jene,  miles 
from  the  village,  dead." 

"It  appears  to  me,"  I  ventured,  after  a  pause,  "that 
this  could  be  explained  without  any  reference  to  a 
supernatural  cause.  The  man  was  terrified  by  the 
noise  made  by  the  wind,  and,  stupid  from  drink,  lost 
his  way." 

The  cure  bowed  his  head  gravely.  "I  have  not 
finished,  monsieur.  Pour  days  after  Paul  Badleigh's 
death,  M.  Labadie  came  to  the  village,  like  a  man 
whose  reason  was  shattered.  His  children  were  gone ! 
His  wife  had  enticed  them  out  for  a  walk,  and  had 
boarded  a  boat  which  was  descending  the  river.  She 
had  taken  her  jewels  and  all  the  money  she  could  find. 
They  had  been  gone  some  hours. 

"  Monsieur,  every  man  in  the  village  went  to  work 
as  though  his  own  child  had  been  stolen.  The  three 
boats  in  St.  Eobideaux  were  manned  by  the  strongest 


MADEMOISELLE  JOAN  189 

oarsmen.  I  was  in  the  first,  with  Olave,  here,  and 
M.  Labadie.  We  overtook  the  fugitives  at  nightfall. 
They  had  landed,  and  the  woman  and  children  were 
in  an  auberge,  in  the  village  of  Pont  de  Josef.  She 
was  very  quiet  and  cool,  smiled  and  jested,  saying  she 
had  but  meant  to  give  the  little  demoiselles  a  glimpse 
of  the  world,  and  would  have  returned  to-morrow.  M. 
Labadie  had  not  a  word  for  her.  He  clung  to  his 
children  as  if  they  had  come  back  safe  out  of  hell  to 
him;  he  would  not  lose  his  hold  on  them, — no,  not 
for  a  minute. 

"It  was  impossible  that  we  could  return  that  night. 
We  must  remain  at  the  auberge,  where  the  Veuve 
Badleigh  had  ordered  for  herself  the  only  chamber. 
I  went  out  to  the  gallery,  and  walked  up  and  down. 
I  could  see  through  the  windows  M.  Labadie  with  his 
little  girls  on  his  knees,  Olave  and  the  other  men, 
and  quite  apart,  by  herself,  the  fat  white  woman, 
with  her  cheap  jewelry  shining  in  her  ears,  leering 
stupidly  about  her.  The  sun  had  just  gone  down,  and 
the  snow  lay  white  on  the  ground.  The  moon  hung 
low  in  the  red  sky.  It  was  still  so  clear  that  I  could 
have  seen  a  moth  in  the  air.  But,  monsieur,  as  I 
stood  for  a  moment,  something  passed  me  by  that  I 
did  not  see.  It  had  a  rushing  force  like  the  wind, 
but  it  was  not  the  wind.  It  was  nothing  which  I 
had  ever  felt  before.  I  cried  out  011  God,  and  my 
heart  died  in  me.  I  looked  to  the  lighted  room 
within.  What  had  happened  I  knew  not.  But  they 
were  standing,  haggard,  waiting,  like  men  who  had 
heard  the  call  of  death." 

"It  was  a  sound  that  we  heard,"  said  M.   Demy, 


190  SILHOUETTES  OF  AMERICAN  LIFE 

"like  a  cry,  and  then  there  were  three  sharp  strokes 
011  the  window  and  a  voice.  But  no  one  understood 
the  words  but  the  Veuve  Badleigh.  She  got  up  and 
walked  to  the  door,  as  one  that  is  dragged,  step  by 
step." 

"I  saw  her,"  continued  the  cure",  "as  she  passed 
me,  going  across  the  gallery  into  her  own  chamber. 
She  had  the  face  of  one  who  had  been  righting  a  bat 
tle  all  through  her  life,  and  was  defeated  at  last. 
Yet  the  miserable,  leering  smile  was  there  still.  She 
went  in  and  shut  the  door."  He  stopped  abruptly. 

"In  the  morning,"  said  M.  Demy,  breaking  the 
silence,  "  she  was  found  there  dead.  She  had  taken 
an  overdose  of  opium.  She  was  buried  at  Pont  de 
Josef."  He  added,  after  a  pause,  "Only  think,  mon 
sieur,  what  a  will  that  little  woman  had!  She  could 
thrust  her  hand  out  of  the  grave  and  drag  those  two 
creatures  after  her.  I  am  truly  glad,"  knocking  the 
ashes  out  of  his  pipe  reflectively,  "'that  I  know  no 
one  who  is  dead  who  has  a  will  like  that." 

We  smoked  in  silence  a  while  longer.  Then  the 
cure,  glancing  at  the  clock,  which  told  midnight,  rose 
to  go. 

"  That  is  the  end  of  the  history,  monsieur,"  he  said. 
"  M.  Labadie  came  back  to  his  happy,  quiet  life  again, 
gradually  paid  off  his  debts,  and  has  almost  forgotten 
his  sore  trouble.  He  has  but  one  fear.  There  are 
times  whj^n  he  thinks  that  his  call  to  go  may  come 
in  the  same  manner,  and  that  he  will  find  the  Veuve 
Badleigh,  her  son  Paul,  and  Mademoiselle  Joan  wait 
ing  for  him  beyond." 


MADEMOISELLE  JOAN  191 

The  next  Sunday  was  one  of  those  clear,  balmy  days 
which  come  in  ^November,  even  in  Canada. 

After  mass  I  waited  near  the  church,  watching  the 
villagers  as  they  leisurely  climbed  the  rocky  street  and 
disappeared  in  the  vine-covered  cottages.  The  bal 
sam  scent  from  the  neighboring  forests  was  heavy  on 
the  sunlit  air;  a  soft  strain  from  the  organ  still  camo 
fitfully  through  the  silence;  around  the  close  horizon 
the  tender  blue  of  the  sky  melted  into  the  blue  of  the 
mountains.  It  was  surely  but  a  thin  veil  which  hid 
heaven  from  earth  to-day. 

I  saw  M.  Labadie,  with  his  little  Rose  and  Jose 
phine,  seated  on  the  stone  bench  beside  the  grave,  as 
usual;  they  had  eaten  their  gotiter,  and  were  talking 
and  laughing  together,  as  if  their  dead  had  really 
come  back  to  them,  and  made  them  the  happier  for 
coming. 

They  made  room  for  me  beside  them. 

"It  seems  to  me,  monsieur,"  said  M.  Labadie,  pres 
ently,  "  as  if  to-day  those  who  are  gone  come  closer  to 
us  than  at  other  times.  The  soft  air  and  the  clear 
light  give  to  one  that  thought." 

"It  may  be  so,  monsieur." 

"My  children,"  he  said  gently,  after  a  silence,  "are 
scattered  in  their  graves  over  all  Canada.  But  I  think 
they  have  found  each  other  there  beyond.  We  always 
know  that  the  mother  is  Avith  us  here  every  Sunday, 
but  to-day  it  seems  as  if  they  all  were  with  her,  — all 
of  us  here  together." 

He  softly  patted  Josephine's  hand  on  his  knee, 
looking  beyond  her  to  those  whom  she  could  not  see. 

A  rising  wind  rustled  the  trees  over  our  heads.  He 
half  rose,  looking  about  uneasily, 


192  SILHOUETTES  OF  AMERICAN  LIFE 

"  Kun  away,  mes  petites.  See  if  the  good  father  is 
still  in  the  church."  When  they  were  out  of  hearing, 
he  leaned  forward,  and  said  to  me,  "  There  are  some 
others  besides  Jeannette  and  my  children  whom  I 
know  yonder.  Do  you  think  I  shall  have  to  go  to 
them?  Can  they  claim  me?" 

"It  is  a  wide  country,  M.  Labadie,"  I  ventured  to 
say,  "  and  they  are  not  of  your  kind.  They  have  no 
claim  upon  you." 

He  nodded  gravely  two  or  three  times,  the  light 
kindling  again  in  his  eyes  as  he  looked  over  the 
grave  into  the  far,  soft  haze.  "You  are  right,"  he 
said  at  last.  "  But  Jeannette  and  the  children  are  of 
my  kind.  Something  tells  me  that  those  others  will 
never  find  me  there.  It  is  a  wide  country,  monsieur, 
—  a  wide  country.  But  we  go  there  —  to  our  own." 


THE   END    OF   THE   VENDETTA 


IT  was  the  second  day  of  Lucy  Coyt's  journey  from 
home.  For  years  she  had  looked  forward  to  the 
time  when  she  should  set  out  to  earn  her  living  in 
that  mysterious  "  South  "  which,  before  the  war,  was 
like  a  foreign  land  to  most  Northern  women.  At  that 
time  families  of  the  class  to  which  Lucy  belonged 
frequently  trained  their  keen-witted  daughters  as 
teachers  to  go  to  the  cotton  States,  precisely  as  they 
now  fit  their  sons  to  go  to  Colorado  or  Dakota.  In 
any  case  they  could  earn  a  better  livelihood  than 
at  home,  and  they  might  open  up  a  gold  mine  in 
the  shape  of  a  rich  widower  or  susceptible  young 
planter.  Two  or  three  of  Miss  Coyt's  classmates 
had  disappeared  victoriously  in  this  way.  She 
fancied  them  as  reigning  over  a  legion  of  slaves,  and 
adored  by  a  swarthy,  fiery  Don  Furioso;  and  natur 
ally  the  possibility  of  such  a  fate  for  herself  glimmered 
hazily  in  the  distance.  Though,  of  course,  it  was 
wrong  to  hold  slaves ;  at  least,  she  was  feebly  confi 
dent  that  was  her  belief  ever  since  David  Pettit  had 
talked  to  her  about  it  the  other  evening.  The  Rever 
end  David  had  brought  some  queer  new  notions  back 
with  him  from  the  theological  school. 

193 


194  SILHOUETTES  OF  AMERICAN  LIFE 

"  He'll  wait  a  long  time  for  a  call  in  our  Presbytery 
if  they  suspect  he's  an  abolitionist,"  thought  Lucy  as 
the  train  whizzed  swiftly  on.  "I  wish  I'd  given  him 
a  hint;  though  he  wouldn't  have  taken  it.  Dave  was 
a  nice  sort  of  a  girl-boy  when  he  used  to  help  me 
skim  the  cream.  But  he  has  grown  real  coarse  and 
conceited,  with  his  Avhite  cravat  and  radical  talk." 
She  drew  a  book  from  her  bag  which  he  had  slipped 
into  her  hand  just  as  the  stage  was  starting.  "  Imita 
tion  of  Christ ! "  eying  the  cross  on  the  back  suspi 
ciously.  "  It  reads  like  sound  doctrine  enough.  But 
Dave  will  have  to  be  on  his  guard.  If  he  brings  any 
papistical  notions  into  our  Presbytery,  his  chance 
for  a  call  is  over." 

She  leaned  back,  uneasily  feeling  that  if  she  could 
have  stayed  and  watched  him,  poor  Miss  Daisy  (as  the 
Fairview  boys  used  to  call  him)  would  have  had  a 
better  chance,  when  the  train  suddenly  stopped.  Miss 
Coyt  had  been  expecting  adventures  ever  since  they 
started.  Now  they  had  begun.  The  train  (she  was 
on  a  railway  in  Lower  Virginia)  was  rushing  across  a 
trestle  bridge,  when,  with  a  shrill  screech  of  steam, 
it  stopped.  Half  of  the  men  in  the  car  crowded  to 
the  door,  where  a  brakeman  stood  barring  the  way. 

"Run  over  a  cow?" 

"No.     Hush-h!     Don't  skeer  the  ladies!  " 

Miss  Coyt  laughed  to  herself.  Jake  Carr,  the 
brakeman  on  the  Fairview  road,  would  have  thrust 
his  head  in  and  yelled,  "Keep  your  seats,  gents!" 
These  Southerners  were  ridiculously  gentle  and  soft 
whenever  they  came  near  a  woman.  This  brakeman 
was  mild-mannered  enough  to  have  kept  sheep  in 


THE  END    OF   THE    VENDETTA  105 

Arcadia.  It  was  plain  that  Fairview  was  many  hun 
dred  miles  away;  this  was  a  different  world.  Lucy's 
quick  eyes  had  noted  all  the  differences,  although  she 
was  miserably  abashed  by  the  crowd  —  so  abashed, 
indeed,  that  she  had  been  parched  with  thirst  since 
morning,  and  could  not  summon  courage  to  go  to  the 
water-cooler  for  a  drink. 

Looking  out  of  the  window,  she  saw  on  the  bank 
below  the  bridge  a  hunched  heap  of  gray  flannel  and 
yellow  calico.  The  men  from  the  train  ran  toward  it. 
"Something's  wrong.  I'd  better  take  right  hold  at 
once,"  thought  Miss  Coyt.  She  took  her  purse  out  of 
her  bag  and  put  it  in  her  pocket,  lest  there  might  be 
a  thief  in  the  car,  and  then  hurried  out  after  the  men. 
She  had  a  very  low  opinion  of  the  intelligence  of  men 
in  any  emergency.  At  home,  she  always  had  pulled 
the  whole  household  of  father  and  brothers  along. 
She  was  the  little  steam-tug;  they  the  heavy  scows, 
dragged  unwillingly  forward. 

She  reached  the  quivering  heap  on  the  bank.  It 
was  a  woman.  Miss  Coyt  straightened  her  clothes, 
kneeled  down  and  lifted  her  head.  The  gray  hair 
was  clotted  with  blood.  "AVhy,  she's  old!  Her 
hair's  white!"  cried  Lucy,  excitedly,  catching  the 
head  up  to  her  breast.  "  Oh  dear !  oh  dear !  " 

"  It's  old  Mis'  Crocker!  "  said  a  train  man.  "  Yon's 
her  cabin  down  on  the  branch.  I  see  her  on  the 
bridge,  'n'  she  heerd  the  train  comin',  '11'  she  jumped, 


"Don't  stand  there  chattering.      Go  for  a  doctor!  " 
said  Miss  Coyt. 

"  I  am  a  doctor,"  said  one  of  the  passengers,  quietly, 


196  SILHOUETTES   OF  AMERICAN  LIFE 

stooping  to  examine  the  woman.  "  She  is  not  dead. 
Not  much  hurt.  An  arm  broken." 

The  men  carried  Mrs.  Crocker  to  her  cabin.  She 
had  caught  Lucy's  hand,  and  so  led  her  along.  The 
other  women  craned  their  necks  out  of  the  car  watch 
ing  her.  They  were  just  as  sorry  as  Lucy,  but  they, 
being  Southern,  were  in  the  habit  of  leaving  great 
emergencies  in  the  hands  of  men. 

"What  can  that  bold  gyurl  do?"  they  said.  "The 
gentlemen  will  attend  to  it." 

The  men,  having  seen  Mrs.  Crocker  open  her  eyes, 
straggled  back  to  the  train. 

"Time's  up,  doctor!  "  shouted  the  conductor.  "Ex 
press  is  due  in  two  minutes." 

The  doctor  was  leisurely  cutting  away  Mrs.  Crocker's 
flannel  sleeve.  "I  shall  want  bandages,"  he  said, 
without  looking  up.  Lucy  looked  about  the  bare  little 
cabin,  half  drew  out  her  handkerchief,  and  put  it 
back.  It  was  one  of  her  dozen  newest  and  best. 
Then  she  espied  a  pillow  cover,  and  tore  it  into  strips. 
The  doctor  dressed  the  arm  as  composedly  as  if  the 
day  was  before  him.  Miss  Coyt  kept  her  eye  on  the 
puffing  engine.  All  the  clothes  she  had  in  the  world 
were  in  her  trunk  on  that  train.  What  intolerable 
dawdlers  these  Virginians  were !  There !  They  were 
going !  She  could  not  leave  the  woman  —  But  her 
clothes ! 

There  was  a  chorus  of  shouts  from  the  train,  a  puff 
of  steam,  and  then  the  long  line  of  cars  shot  through 
the  hills,  leaving  but  a  wisp  of  smoke  clinging  to  the 
closing  forest.  The  doctor  fastened  his  last  bandage. 
Miss  Coyt,  with  a  choking  noise  in  her  throat,  rushed 


THE  END    OF   THE    VENDETTA  197 

to  the  door.  The  doctor  looked  at  his  companion  for 
the  first  time.  Then  he  quickly  took  off  his  hat,  and 
came  up  to  her  with  that  subtle  air  of  homage  which 
sets  the  man  in  that  region  so  thoroughly  apart  from 
the  woman. 

"I  beg  of  you  not  to  be  alarmed/'  he  said. 

"But  they  are  gone!" 

"You  have  your  ticket?  There  will  be  another 
train  before  night,  and  you  will  find  your  trunks 
awaiting  you  at  Abingdon." 

"  Oh,  thank  you !  "  gasped  Lucy,  suddenly  ashamed 
of  her  tear-dabbled  face.  "  It  was  very  silly  in  me. 
But  I  never  travelled  alone  before." 

The  doctor  had  always  supposed  Northern  women 
to  be  as  little  afflicted  with  timidity  as  life-assurance 
agents.  His  calm  eyes  rested  an  instant  on  Miss  Coyt 
as  he  folded  his  pocket-book.  "  It  was  my  fault  that 
you  were  detained,  madam,"  he  said.  "If  you  will 
permit  me,  I  will  look  after  your  luggage  when  we 
reach  Abingdon." 

Lucy  thanked  him  again,  and  turned  to  help  Mrs. 
Crocker,  who  was  struggling  to  her  feet.  How  lucky 
she  was  to  meet  this  good-natured,  fatherly  doctor  in 
this  adventure!  It  might  have  been  some  conceited 
young  man.  The  doctor,  too,  was  of  a  very  different 
human  species  from  the  ox-like  Fairview  farmers 
whom  she  had  left  behind,  or  neat,  thin-blooded  Davy 
Pettit.  Miss  Coyt  had  known  no  other  men  than 
these.  But  in  the  intervals  of  pie-making  and  milk 
ing  on  the  farm  she  had  gone  to  the  Fairview  Female 
Seminary,  and  had  read  Carlyle,  and  the  Autocrat  in 
the  "Atlantic,"  and  "Beauties  of  German  Authors"; 


198  SILHOUETTES   OF  AMERICAN  LIFE 

and  so  felt  herself  an  expert  in  human  nature,  and 
quite  fitted  to  criticise  any  new  types  which  the 
South  might  offer  to  her. 

Mrs.  Crocker  went  out  to  the  doctor,  who  was  sit 
ting  on  the  log  which  served  as  a  step.  She  looked 
at  the  bridge. 

"Mighty  big  fall  thet  wur,"  she  said,  compla 
cently.  "  Ther's  not  another  woman  in  Wythe  County 
as  could  hev  done  it  athout  breakin'  her  neck." 

"Ah,  you've  twenty  good  years  of  life  in  you  yet, 
mother,"  he  said,  good-humoredly,  glancing  at  her 
muscular  limbs,  and  skin  tanned  to  a  tine  leather-color 
by  wind  and  sun. 

"  Oh,  I'm  tough  enough.  Brought  up  eleven  chil 
dren  right  hyar  on  the  branch.  All  gone  —  dead  or 
married.  I  helped  build  this  hyar  house  witli  my  own 
hands  twelve  year  ago.  What  d'ye  think  o'  thet  corn? 
Ploughed  and  hoed  every  hill  of  it." 

"  It's  outrageous !  "  said  Lucy,  authoritatively.  "  At 
your  age  a  woman's  children  should  support  her.  I 
would  advise  you  to  give  up  the  house  at  once,  divide 
the  year  among  them,  and  rest." 

"No,  missy;  I  never  war  one  for  jauntin'  round. 
Once,  when  I  wur  a  gyurl,  I  wur  at  Marion.  But  I 
wur  born  right  hyar  on  the  branch  seventy  year  back, 
'n'  I  reckon  I'll  make  an  end  on't  hyar." 

"  Seventy  years !  —  here !  "  thought  Lucy.  Her  eyes 
wandered  over  the  gorge  lined  with  corn,  the  pig-pen, 
the  unchinked,  dirty  cabin.  The  doctor  watched  her 
expressive  face  with  an  amused  smile.  Mrs.  Crocker 
went  in  to  stir  the  fire. 

"Better,  you  think,  not  to  live  at  all?"  he  replied 
to  her  looks. 


THE  END   OF   THE    VEX  I)  ETTA  199 

"  I  do  not  call  it  living,"  she  said,  promptly.  "  I've 
seen  it  often  on  farms.  Dropping  corn  and  eating  it; 
feeding  pigs  and  children  until  both  were  big  enough 
to  be  sent  away ;  and  that  for  seventy  years !  It  is  no 
better  life  than  that  fat  worm's  there  beside  you." 

The  doctor  laughed,  and  lazily  put  down  his  hand 
that  the  worm  might  crawl  over  it.  "  Poor  old  woman ! 
Poor  worm !  "  he  said.  "  There  is  nothing  as  merci 
less  as  a  woman  —  like  you,"  hesitating,  but  not  look 
ing  up.  "  She  would  leave  nothing  alive  that  was  not 
young  and  beautiful  and  supreme  as  herself.  You 
should  consider.  The  world  was  not  made  for  the 
royal  family  alone.  You  must  leave  room  in  it  for 
old  women,  and  worms,  and  country  doctors." 

Lucy  laughed,  but  did  not  reply.  She  did  not 
understand  this  old  gentleman,  who  was  bestowing 
upon  her  very  much  the  same  quizzical,  good-humored 
interest  which  he  gave  to  the  worm. 

"I  don't  know  how  you  can  touch  the  loathsome 
thing,  anyhow,"  she  said,  tartly.  "It  creeps  up  into 
your  hand  as  if  it  knew  you  were  taking  its  part." 

"  It  does  know.  If  I  wanted  it  for  bait,  it  would 
not  come  near  me.  I  fancy  all  creatures  know  their 
friends.  Watch  a  moment." 

He  walked  a  few  steps  into  the  edge  of  the  woods, 
and  threw  himself  down  into  the  deep  grass,  his  face 
upward.  Whether  he  made  signs  or  whistled  Lucy 
could  not  tell,  but  presently  a  bird  from  a  neighboring 
bough  came  circling  down  and  perched  beside  him; 
another  and  another  followed,  until,  when  he  rose,  it 
seemed  to  her  that  the  whole  flock  hovered  about  him, 
chirping  excitedly.  He  stopped  by  the  bee-hives  as 


200  SILHOUETTES  OF  AMERICAN  LIFE 

he  came  back,  and  the  bees,  disturbed,  swarmed  about 
him,  settling  black  on  his  head  and  shoulders.  Lucy 
ran  to  him,  as  he  stood  unhurt,  gently  brushing  them 
off,  pleased  and  flushed  with  his  little  triumph. 

"  One  would  really  think  you  knew  what  they  said." 

"I  wish  I  did!"  he  said,  looking  thoughtfully  at 
the  birds  flying  upward.  There  was  a  certain  senti- 
mentalism,  a  straining  after  scenic  pose  and  effect, 
which  would  have  seemed  ridiculous  to  her  in  Dave 
Pettit;  but  she  found  it  peculiarly  attractive  now. 

"You  have  no  charm?" 

"  No.  Only  that  I  have  been  friends  with  them  all 
since  I  was  a  child,  and  they  know  it.  I  remember 
when  I  was  a  baby  sitting  with  the  black  pickaninnies 
on  the  ground  playing  with  frogs.  Even  then  "  (with 
the  same  touch  of  grandiloquence  in  his  tone)  "I  did 
not  find  anything  that  was  alive  loathsome  or  un 
friendly.  I  beg  your  pardon,"  suddenly.  "I  did  not 
mean  to  bore  you  with  the  history  of  my  infancy." 

"Bore  me!  Why,  I  never  met  with  so  singular  a 
trait  in  anybody  before !  " 

Miss  Coyt  was  now  satisfied  that  this  was  not  only 
a  most  extraordinary  man  in  intellect,  but  in  good 
ness.  She  could  imagine  what  life  and  strength,  liv 
ing  so  close  to  nature  as  he  did,  he  would  carry  to  a 
sick  or  dying  bed!  It  was  like  the  healing  power  of 
the  old  saints. 

There  wras  the  advantage  of  travel!  How  long 
would  she  have  lived  in  Fairview  without  meeting 
anybody  with  traits  so  abnormal  and  fine!  She 
began  to  have  a  sense  of  ownership  in  this  her  dis 
covery.  Now  that  she  examined  the  doctor,  he  was 


THE  END   OF  THE   VENDETTA  201 

not  even  middle-aged:  how  could  she  have  thought 
him  old?  What  womanish  tenderness  was  in  the  cut 
of  his  mouth!  Indeed,  this  astute  young  woman 
found  the  close-shaven  jaws  indicated  a  benevolence 
amounting  to  weakness.  The  eyes  were  less  satisfac 
tory  :  they  were  gray  and  bright,  but  they  said  abso 
lutely  nothing  to  her,  no  more  than  if  they  belonged 
to  a  species  of  animal  which  was  unknown  to  her. 
This  only  whetted  her  interest.  Was  he  married? 
Was  he  a  church  member?  What  would  he  probably 
think  of  that  favorite  passage  of  hers  in  Jean  Paul? 
This  young  woman,  we  should  have  stated  earlier,  was 
neither  engaged  nor  in  love.  She  intended  to  be  in 
love  some  day,  however;  and  there  were  certain  tests 
which  she  applied  as  she  went  through  life  to  each 
man  whom  she  met,  just  as  she  might  idly  try  to  set 
different  words  to  some  melody  known  only  to  herself. 

The  man  (who  was  not  in  want  of  a  mate)  had  quite 
forgotten  the  woman.  He  had  gone  into  the  kitchen, 
and  finding  some  bacon  and  fresh  mountain  trout,  had 
set  about  cooking  dinner  as  if  he  were  in  camp.  A 
mess  was  already  simmering  on  the  fire.  He  fastened 
a  towel  before  him  for  an  apron,  lifted  the  lid  from 
the  frying-pan  and  dropped  something  into  it  from  a 
case  of  vials  which  he  took  out  of  his  pocket. 

"Always  carry  my  own  sauces,"  he  said  as  Lucy 
came  up.  "  Smell  that!  "  sniffing  up  the  savory  steam 
with  an  unctuous  smile.  "  Ah-h!  " 

Lucy  ate  the  dinner  when  it  was  ready  in  a  kind  of 
fervor.  She  had  never  met  a  gourmand  before.  Here 
was  a  fine  individual  trait  in  this  exceptional  char 
acter. 


202  SILHOUETTES   OF  AMERICAN  LIFE 

This  fair-haired,  stout  doctor,  with  his  birds  and  his 
cookery  and  his  jokes  and  his  pale  impenetrable  eyes, 
seemed  to  her  for  some  reason  a  bigger  and  more 
human  man  than  any  she  had  ever  guessed  were  in  the 
world.  If  she  were  only  a  man  and  could  make  a 
comrade  of  him!  She  had  never  made  a  comrade  of 
her  father  or  brothers;  they 'were  always  taken  up 
with  pigs,  or  politics,  or  county  railroad  business. 
And  the  ideal  companion  she  had  picked  out  for  her 
self  from  religious  novels  was  unsatisfactory  —  as  a 
matter  of  fact.  She  looked  speculatively  at  the  broad- 
backed  linen  duster  in.  the  doorway.  She  was  as 
unconscious  of  the  speculation  in  her  eyes  as  the  polyp 
fastened  to  a  rock  is  of  the  movement  of  its  tentacles 
groping  through  the  water  for  food. 

The  doctor  had  no  curiosity  about  her.  When  Mrs. 
Crocker  questioned  her  as  to  her  name  and  age,  he 
whistled  to  the  farm  dog,  not  listening  to  the  answer. 

"What  you  doin'  hyar  in  Vuhginny,  ennyhow?" 

"I  came  from  Pennsylvania  to  teach  a  school  in  a 
place  called  Otoga,  in  Carolina, "  said  Lucy. 

"Hev  some  friends  in  these  parts,  I  reckon?" 

"No,  none  at  all.  Unless  I  may  call  you  one,  Mrs. 
Crocker,"  with  a  nervous  laugh. 

"  Reckon  you'll  not  see  much  more  o'  me,  ma'am. 
Otoga,  hey?  My  son  Orlando  lives  thar.  'Pears  to 
me  I'd  keep  clar  o'  thet  town  ef  I  wur  a  young  woman 
'thout  pertection.  Orlan's  tole  me  a  heap  about  it." 

"Why,  what  is  the  matter  with  Otoga?"  exclaimed 
Lucy,  rising  uncertainly.  "I  must  go  there.  My 
engagement  —  " 

"Matter?  Nothin',  only  it's  ther  the  Van  Cleves 
hev  gone  to  live.  You've  heerd  o'  them,  o'  course?" 


THE  END    OF   THE    VENDETTA  203 

"Xo.     VanCleves?" 

The  doctor  came  up  to  the  open  door,  watch  in  hand. 

"The  train  will  be  due  in  twenty  minutes." 

"I  am  ready.  Who  are  these  people,  Mrs.  Crocker? 
I  must  live  among  them." 

"They  won't  hurt  you,  I  reckon.  Ther's  no  higher 
toned  people  than  the  Van  Cleves  and  the  Suydams. 
Only  it's  sort  of  unpleasant  whar  they  are,  sometimes. 
You  see,"  leisurely  lighting  her  pipe  with  a  brand, 
"  them  two  famblies  swore  death  agin  each  other  nigh 
a  hundred  year  ago,  an'  since  then  ther's  not  a  man  of 
them  lies  died  in  his  bed.  They  lived  in  Tennessee. 
Orlan  he  tole  me  the  rights  of  it.  Four  brothers  of  the 
Van  Cleves  barricaded  some  of  the  Suydams  up  in  ther 
house  for  five  weeks,  an'  when  they  were  fairly  starved 
an'  crep  out,  they  shot  them  dead.  Thet  wur  the 
grandfathers  o'  this  present  stock.  But  they  hev  kep 
at  it  stiddy.  ISTot  a  man  o'  them  but  died  in  his  boots. 
Ther's  but  one  Suydain  left,  '11'  thet's  Cunnel  Abram. 
His  father  wur  shot  by  the  Van  Cleves.  So  when 
Abram  wur  a  boy,  he  says,  says  he,  'Now  I'm  gwine 
to  put  a  final  eend  to  this  whole  thing. '  So  he  went  at 
it  practisin.'  with  his  pistol,  'n'  when  he  thought  he 
were  ready  he  challenges  Jedge  Van  Cleve,  'n'  shoots 
him  plumb  through  the  head.  Oh,  Orlan  says  it  wur 
a  fah  dooel,  no  murder.  Ther  wur  two  Van  Cleves 
left,  jess  boys,  nepheys  of  the  jedge,  'n'  they'd  gone 
to  Californy.  But  Cunnel  Abram  he  followed  them, 
'n'  shot  one  on  the  deck  of  a  ship  bound  for  Chiny. 
T'other  he  dodged  him  somehow  'n'  come  back,  'n' 
is  livin'  in  Otoga.  But  he'll  be  found.  Cunnel 
Abram'll  track  him  down,"  wagging  her  head  with 
the  zest  of  horror. 


204  SILHOUETTES   OF  AMERICAN  LIFE 

"But  is  there  no  law  at  all  here?"  cried  Lucy. 
"  I  can't  believe  such  a  wretch  would  go  unhung  any 
where." 

The  doctor  tapped  on  the  window.  "  The  train  is 
in  sight.  You  must  bid  our  friend  good-by." 

Lucy  shook  hands  hurriedly  with  the  old  woman. 
She  had  some  money  in  her  hand  to  give  her,  but, 
after  a  moment's  hesitation,  dropped  it  back  into  her 
pocket,  and  handed  her  a  tract  instead.  "Religion 
will  do  her  more  real  good,"  she  thought  afterward, 
quieting  an  uneasy  inward  twinge ;  "  at  least  it  ought 
to." 

When  they  had  boarded  the  train  the  doctor  arranged 
her  seat  with  gentle,  leisurely  movements,  and  brought 
her  last  week's  Richmond  paper.  He  did  not,  as  she 
expected,  take  the  vacant  seat  beside  her,  but  disap 
peared,  only  returning  when  the  train  reached  Abing- 
don. 

"This  carriage  will  take  you  to  the  inn,  madam. 
I  have  written  a  note  to  the  landlord,  who  will  show 
you  every  attention.  No,  no  thanks,"  shutting  her 
in,  his  fat,  agreeable  face  showing  an  instant  smiling 
over  the  door.  He  did  not  offer  his  hand,  as  all  the 
men  whom  Lucy  had  known  would  have  done.  He 
lifted  his  hat,  hesitating  a  moment  before  he  added, 
half  reluctantly :  "  It  is  probable  that  I  may  meet  you 
again.  My  business  calls  me  to  Carolina." 

Miss  Coyt  bowed  civilly,  but  as  the  carriage  rattled 
up  the  street  she  laughed  aloud  and  blushed.  She 
herself  did  not  know  why.  It  was  certainly  very 
lonely  and  dangerous  for  a  woman  adventuring  among 
murderers  and  assassins. 


THE  END    OF   THE   VENDETTA  205 


Three  days  after  she  left  Ahingdon,  Lucy,  rumbling 
along  the  mountain-side  in  an  old  wagon,  came  in  sight 
of  a  dozen  gray,  weather-beaten  houses  huddled  on  the 
edge  of  a  creek  in  the  gorge  below. 

"Yoii's  Otoga,"  said  the  driver,  pointing  with  his 
whip. 

"  Hi,  Dumfort !  "  shouted  a  man's  voice.  "  Hold  on 
thar !  "  and  a  big  young  fellow  in  butternut  flannel 
appeared  in  the  underbush.  "  You  cahn't  go  to  Otoga. 
Yellow  Jack's  thar  afore  you.  Six  men  dead  since 
yes 'day  mawniii'." 

"  The  devil!  "     Dumfort  pulled  up  his  mules. 

"  So  I  say.  Six.  I  an'  my  wife  hev  been  on  the 
lookout  for  you  since  mawnin'." 

"  'Bleeged,  captain.  Six?  That  about  halves  them 
down  thar.  T!  T!  I  dunno's  ever  I  was  more  inter- 
ruptid  than  this  afore ! "  snapping  his  whip  medita 
tively. 

Lucy,  peeping  through  the  oil-skin  blind,  could  see 
the  bold,  merry  face  of  the  young  countryman.  He 
stood  pulling  his  red  beard  and  frowning  with  decent 
regret  for  his  neighbors.  Of  course  he  was  sorry,  but 
he  had  so  much  life  and  fun  in  him  that  he  could  not 
help  being  happy  and  comfortable  if  the  whole  State 
of  Carolina  were  dead  with  yellow  fever. 

"I've  got  the  mail,  too.  An'  a  passenger,"  said 
Dumfort,  jerking  his  head  back  to  the  wagon.  "  What 
in  the  mischief  am  I  to  do?" 

"The  mail'll  keep.  Drive  right  up  to  my  house, 
an'  my  wife '11  give  you  an'  the  other  man  shake 
downs  till  the  mawnin'." 


206  SILHOUETTES  OF  AMERICAN  LIFE 

"  'Tain't  another  man." 

The  young  man  stepped  quickly  forward,  with  an 
instantaneous  change  of  manner.  He  jerked  off  his 
quilted  wide-rimmed  hat  ("made  out  of  his  wife's  old 
dress,"  thought  Lucy.)  —  "I  did  not  know  that  ther' 
was  a  lady  inside,"  he  said.  "I  was  too  rough  with 
my  news.  Come  up  to  my  house.  My  wife'll  tell 
you  there's  no  danger." 

"I  shall  be  very  glad  to  go,"  said  Miss  Coyt. 

Dumfort  drove  up  a  rutted  mountain  road  and 
stopped  before  a  log  cabin.  Of  all  houses  in  the 
world,  it  was  plainly  the  first  venture  in  life  of  two 
poor  young  people.  Lucy  read  the  whole  story  at  a 
glance.  There  was  the  little  clearing  on  the  mountain 
side;  the  patch  of  corn  and  potatoes  (just  enough  for 
two)  ;  the  first  cow ;  the  house  itself,  walls,  ceiling,  and 
floor  made  of  planed  planks  of  the  delicately  veined 
poplar;  the  tidy  supper  table,  with  its  two  plates; 
the  photographs  of  the  bride's  father  and  mother  hung 
over  the  mantel-shelf  in  frames  which  she  had  made 
of  bits  of  mica  from  the  mine  yonder.  Here  was  a 
chair  made  out  of  a  barrel  and  trimmed  with  pink 
muslin,  there  a  decorated  ginger  jar,  a  chromo  of  the 
Death  of  Andrew  Jackson  on  the  wall.  Lucy  was  on 
the  same  rung  of  the  ladder  of  culture  as  her  hostess. 

"  She  has  a  very  refined  taste, "  she  thought.  "  That 
tidy  stitch  was  just  coming  in  at  Fairview."  Hurry 
ing  in  from  the  field,  her  baby  in  her  arms,  came  a 
plump,  freckled,  blue-eyed  woman. 

"Mistress  Thomas,"  said  Dumfort,  ponderously, 
"  let  me  make  you  acquainted  with  Miss  Coyt.  She 
war  a-goin'  to  Otoga  to  teach  school." 


THE  END   OF  THE    VENDETTA  207 

The  two  women  exchanged  smiles  and  keen  glances. 
"Baby's  asleep,"  whispered  the  mother.  "I'll  shako 
hands  when  I  lay  him  down." 

Lucy  ran  to  turn  down  the  crib  quilt.  "  He's  tre 
mendously  big,"  she  whispered,  helping  to  tuck  him 
in. 

"Now,  Dorcas,  let's  have  supper,"  called  the  farmer 
from  the  door,  where  he  sat  smoking  with  Dumfort. 
"Our  friends  must  be  hungry  as  b'ars." 

Dorcas  smiled,  and  with  intolerably  lazy  slowness 
tucked  up  her  sleeves  from  her  white  arms  and  began 
the  inevitable  chicken  frying.  Lucy  suddenly  remem 
bered  how  unbusinesslike  was  the  whole  proceeding. 
She  went  up  to  her  hostess,  who  was  stooping  over 
the  big  log  fire. 

"What  do  you  charge  for  board?"  she  said.  "I 
should  like  to  stay  here  until  the  sickness  is  over  in 
Otoga.  That  is,  if  your  charges  are  reasonable,"  eying 
her  keenly.  Her  rule  always  was  to  make  her  bargain 
before  buying,  then  she  never  was  cheated. 

Mrs.  Dorcas's  fair  face  burned  red.  "We  don't 
take  folks  in  to  board,"  she  drawled  in  her  sweet 
voice,  looking  at  Lucy  curiously.  "But  we'll  be 
mighty  glad  if  you'll  stay's  long's  you  can.  It's  pow 
erful  lonesome  hyah  on  the  mountains.  We'll  take  it 
as  very  kyind  in  you  to  stay." 

"It  is  you  who  are  kind,"  said  Lucy,  feeling  miser 
ably  small  and  vulgar.  But  how  could  she  have 
known?  They  did  not  use  strangers  in  this  ridicu 
lously  generous  way  in  Fairview. 

Mistress  Dorcas  shot  an  amused,  speculative  glance 
after  her,  and  went  on  with  her  frying.  Miss  Coyt, 


208  SILHOUETTES   OF  AMERICAN  LIFE 

presently  finding  the  baby  awake,  took  him  up  and 
went  out  to  the  steps  where  his  father  and  Dumfort 
still  smoked  and  gossipped  in  the  slanted  yellow  beams 
of  'the  lowering  sun.  The  baby,  who  was  freckled  and 
soft-eyed  as  his  mother,  replied  to  Lucy's  cooing  and 
coddling  by  laughing  and  thrusting  his  tiny  fat  fist 
into  her  eyes.  Lucy  stooped  and  kissed  him  furtively. 
She  felt  lonely  and  far  from  home  just  then. 

"What  do  you  call  baby?"  she  asked. 

Mrs.  Dorcas  came  to  the  door.  "  His  real  name  is 
Humpty.  But  he  was  baptized  Alexander  —  Alex 
ander  Van  Cleve." 

Lucy  sprang  to  her  feet.  "  Van  Cleve !  "  staring  at 
the  farmer.  "I  thought  your  name  was  Thomas?" 

"Thomas  Van  Cleve,"  smiling.  "Why,  what's 
wrong  with  that?" 

Lucy  felt  as  though  a  blow  had  been  struck  at  her, 
which  made  her  knees  totter.  "  They  told  me  in  Vir 
ginia  that  the  Suydams  were  on  your  track." 

There  was  a  sudden  silence,  but  Miss  Coyt,  being 
greatly  shaken,  stumbled  on.  "I  did  not  expect  to 
come  in  your  way  —  I'm  not  used  to  such  things  — 
and  this  poor  baby,"  hugging  it  passionately.  "It's 
a  Van  Cleve  too!" 

The  young  man  took  the  boy.  "Quiet  yourself. 
Humpty  will  not  be  hurt  by  —  any  one,"  he  said,  and 
putting  him  up  on  his  shoulder  he  walked  down  to  the 
chicken-yard.  His  wife  went  in  without  a  word,  and 
shut  the  door.  Lucy  sat  down.  After  a  long  time 
she  said  to  Dumfort : 

"I  have  made  a  mistake." 

"Yes.     But  you  couldn't  be  expected  to  know.     I 


THE  END   OF  THE   VENDETTA  209 

never  heerd  a  Suydam's  name  mentioned  to  a  Van 
Cleve  afore.  It  was  so  surprisin'  it  didn't  seem  de 
cent,  somehow." 

"I  don't  understand  why,"  groaned  Lucy. 

"No?  Ther's  things  what  ain't  never  talked  of. 
Now  ther's  the  Peterses  in  the  Smoky  Mountings. 
There  used  to  be  a  disease  in  the  Peters  fambly  which 
attacked  one  leg.  But  it  turned  out  to  be  true  Asiatic 
leprosy.  Well,  it  isn't  reckoned  civil  hyarabouts  to 
speak  of  legs  afore  a  Peters.  Now  this  fambly's  got  a 
—  a  discussion  hangin'  on  with  the  Suydams  for  a 
hundred  year,  as  onfortinit  's  leprosy.  An'  —  well, 
probably  you're  the  first  person's  ever  mentioned  it  to 
them." 

They  relapsed  into  silence  until  they  were  called  in 
to  supper.  Lucy  felt  as  if  a  thin  glaze  of  ice  had 
risen  between  her  and  the  Van  Cleves.  They  were 
afraid  of  her.  As  for  her,  her  food  choked  her. 
But  after  supper  Mrs.  Dorcas  brought  out  a  flannel 
slip  which  she  was  making  for  baby,  and  Lucy  insisted 
on  trying  it  on.  She  was  fond  of  babies.  She  had  a 
sacque  in  her  trunk  which  she  had  been  braiding  for 
her  brother  Joe's  child. 

"I'll  bring  it  down  to  give  you  the  idea,"  she 
said,  and  ran  up  for  it. 

Van  Cleve  looked  at  it  over  his  wife's  shoulder  when 
it  came.  "Try  that  thing  on  Humpty,  Miss  Coyt," 
he  said,  and  when  it  was  on  he  held  the  boy  up  on  his 
outstretched  arm.  "Pretty's  a  picture,  hey,  Dum- 
fort?" 

"I'll  finish  it  for  him,"  exclaimed  Lucy,  with  a 
gush  of  generosity.  "I  can  make  Sam  another." 


210  SILHOUETTES   OF  AMERICAN  LIFE 

Mrs.  Dorcas  broke  into  a  delighted  flood  of  thanks. 
She  jumped  up  to  fit  and  button  it  on  the  boy,  while 
her  husband,  quite  as  vain  and  pleased  as  she,  held 
him.  It  seemed  incredible  to  Lucy  that  this  ghastly 
horror,  which  never  could  be  mentioned,  stood  like  a 
shadow  behind  the  three ;  that  this  commonplace,  jolly 
little  family  went  to  bed,  rose,  sat  down  to  eat,  with 
Death  as  their  perpetual  companion,  dumb,  waiting  to 
strike. 

The  next  morning  was  that  of  an  April  day.  The 
whole  world  was  swathed  in  fog  and  gray  dampness, 
and  the  next  moment  it  flashed  and  sparkled  in  the 
sunlight,  every  leaf  quivering  back  in  brilliance. 
Young  Van  Cleve  had  set  off  by  daylight,  whistling 
behind  his  steers.  Before  noon  he  came  up  the  moun 
tain,  his  head  sunk,  silent  and  morose.  Even  the 
ruddy  color  was  gone ;  his  thick-featured,  jolly  face 
was  nipped  as  with  age. 

Dorcas  ran  to  meet  him.     "Are  you  sick,  Tom?  " 

"No." 

"  Have  you  "  —  she  glanced  swiftly  around  —  "  have 
you  heard  —  anything?  " 

"Nothing.  I  thought  it  best  to  throw  off  work 
to-day." 

He  drove  the  steers  into  the  inclosure.  As  he 
unyoked  them  he  sent  keen,  furtive  glances  into  the 
darkening  woods.  Meanwhile  the  sky  had  lowered. 
Clouds  walled  in  the  mountain  plateau;  the  day  had 
grown  heavy  and  foreboding. 

Dumfort  came  to  Lucy,  who  was  sitting  on  the  steps 
with  the  baby. 

"  Thomas  has  hed  a  warnin',"  he  said,  in  a  low  tone. 
"Gunnel  Abram's  on  his  track." 


THE  END   OF   THE    VENDETTA  211 

"  He  has  seen  him !  "  She  started  up,  catching  up 
Humpty  in  her  arms.  "He  is  coining  here?" 

"  So  I  think.  But  Thomas  hain't  seen  him.  He's 
ben  warned.  I've  heerd  that  them  Van  Cleves  allays 
kin  tell  when  a  Suydam  is  near  them." 

"  Nonsense !  "     Lucy  set  the  child  down  again. 

"Jess  as  some  men,"  pursued  Dumfort,  calmly, 
"kin  tell  when  there's  a  rattlesnake  in  the  grass  nigh: 
an7  others  creep  with  cold  ef  a  cat's  in  the  room." 

Miss  Coyt,  still  contemptuous,  watched  Van  Cleve 
sharply  as  he  passed  into  the  house.  "Dorcas,"  he 
said,  quietly,  as  he  passed,  "  bring  Humpty  in.  Keep 
indoors  to-day."  He  went  up  to  the  loft,  closing  the 
trap-door  behind  him,  and  Lucy  fancied  that  she  heard 
the  click  of  fire-arms. 

Dumfort's  pipe  went  out  in  his  mouth  with  his 
smothered  excitement.  "He's  loadin'!  Suydam's 
cominM  "  he  whispered.  "Thomas  ain't  the  same 
man  he  was  this  mawnin' !  He's  layin'  to,  'n'  waitin'." 

"  To  murder  another  man !  And  he  calls  himself  a 
Christian !  He  had  family  prayers  this  morning !  " 

"  What's  that  got  to  do  with  it?"  demanded,  Dum 
fort,  fiercely.  "Thomas's  got  his  dooty  laid  out. 
He's  got  the  murderer  of  his  brother  to  punish.  The 
law's  left  it  to  them  two  famblies  to  settle  with  each 
other.  God's  left  it  to  them.  Them  old  Jews  sent 
the  nearest  of  kin  to  avenge  blood.  The  Suydams  hev 
blood  to  avenge."  He  got  up  abruptly  and  walked 
uneasily  up  and  down  the  barnyard.  Dorcas  had  left 
her  work,  and  with  Humpty  in  her  arms  sat  by  the 
window,  her  keen  eyes  fixed  on  the  thicket  of  pines 
that  fenced  in  the  house,  black  and  motionless  in  the 
breathless  air. 


212  SILHOUETTES  OF  AMERICAN  LIFE 

No  rain  had  fallen  as  yet,  but  the  forest,  the  peaks 
of  the  mountains  beyond,  the  familiar  objects  in  the 
barnyard,  had  drawn  closer  with  that  silent  hush  and 
peculiar  dark  distinctness  that  precedes  a  storm. 
They,  too,  listened  and  waited.  Lucy  heard  a  step  in 
the  house.  Van  Cleve  came  heavily  down  from  the 
loft  and  seated  himself,  his  face  turned  toward  the 
road  by  which  a  stranger  must  approach. 

Lucy  stood  irresolute  for  a  few  minutes ;  she  felt  as 
if  she  could  not  draw  her  breath;  the  air  was  full  of 
death.  Pulling  the  hood  of  her  waterproof  over  her 
head,  she  crossed  the  stile  and  walked  down  the  road. 
"I  will  be  first  to  meet  the  wolf,"  she  said  aloud, 
laughing  nervously. 

The  road  wound  through  the  unbroken  forest  down 
to  the  creek.  As  she  came  nearer  to  the  water  she 
heard  the  plash  of  a  horse's  feet  crossing  the  ford. 
She  tried  to  cry  out  that  he  was  coming,  to  warn 
them,  but  her  mouth  would  not  make  a  sound;  her 
legs  shook  under  her;  she  caught  by  a  tree,  possessed 
by  childish,  abject  fear.  When  the  horse  and  rider 
came  into  sight  she  laughed  hysterically. 

It  was  the  good-humored  doctor.  He  turned  quietly 
at  her  cry,  and  smiled  placidly.  Nothing  would 
startle  that  phlegmatic  mass  of  flesh.  He  alighted, 
tied  his  horse,  and  came  to  her  with  the  leisurely, 
noiseless  movements  peculiar  to  him. 

"  You  are  frightened.  What  are  you  afraid  of,  Miss 
Coyt?" 

"  Oh,  of  a  monster !  "  —  laughing  feebly  —  "a human 
beast  of  prey  that  is  in  these  mountains.  Every  time 
a  branch  moved  I  expected  to  see  his  murderous  face 
coming:  toward  his  victim." 


THE  END   OF   THE   VENDETTA  213 

She  wanted  to  pour  out  the  whole  story,  but  he 
stood  stolid  and  incurious,  asking  no  questions.  She 
hesitated  and  stopped. 

"I  saw  nobody,"  he  said,  composedly. 

Whether  he  was  interested  or  not,  she  must  tell 
him.  He  was  so  wise  and  kind;  he  was  a  man  used 
to  control  others.  If  he  would  interfere  he  could 
doubtless  put  an  end  to  it  all. 

"It  is  a  vendetta,"  she  began.  "You  heard  of  it 
the  time  of  the  accident." 

"You  should  not  allow  yourself  to  be  excited  by  the 
gossip  of  the  mountains,"  he  interrupted,  gently;  but 
his  eyes,  smiling  down  at  her,  suddenly  seemed  to  her 
as  hard  and  impenetrable  as  granite.  "  I  fear  I  must 
leave  you.  I  must  reach  Otoga  before  noon." 

"You  must  not  go  to  Otoga,"  catching  him  by  the 
arm.  "  The  yellow  fever  is  there.  Half  of  the  popu 
lation  are  dead." 

"Worse  than  that,  I  am  afraid,"  he  said,  gravely. 
"We  heard  this  morning  that  there  was  now  neither 
doctor,  nurse,  nor  anybody  to  bury  the  dead." 

"And  you  are  going  to  help  them?"  drawing  back 
with  a  kind  of  awe. 

"I  am  a  doctor,"  he  said,  indifferently,  "and  I  can 
nurse  in  a  fashion,  and  if  the  worst  comes  to  the  worst, 
I  can  dig  a  grave." 

"I'm  sure  it  is  —  very  heroic,"  gasped  Lucy.  The 
tears  came  to  her  eyes. 

He  frowned  irritably.  "Nothing  of  the  kind. 
Somebody  must  go,  of  course.  The  physicians  in 
Abingdon  are  married  men.  I  am  a  stranger,  and 
have  nobody.  There  is  nothing  to  keep  me  in  this 


214  SILHOUETTES   OF  AMERICAN  LIFE 

world  but  a  little  business  which  I  have  to  do,  and 
that  lies  in  Otoga.  I  really  must  ride  on.  But  I 
will  take  you  safely  home  first.  Where  are  you  stay- 
ing?" 

"  At  the  cabin  yonder.  Behind  the  pines.  Thomas 
Van  Cleve's." 

The  doctor  had  stepped  before  her  to  bend  aside  the 
bushes.  He  stopped  short,  and  stood  motionless  a 
moment,  his  back  to  her.  When  he  turned  there  was 
an  alteration  in  his  face  which  she  could  not  define. 
The  actor  was  gone ;  the  real  man  looked  out  for  an 
instant  from  behind  the  curtain. 

"Young  Van  Cleve  lives  in  that  cabin?" 

"Yes,  with  his  wife  and  child." 

"A  child?     Is  it  a  boy?" 

"  Yes,  the  dearest  little  fellow.     Why  do  you  ask?  " 

A  smile,  or  it  might  have  been  a  nervous  contortion, 
flickered  over  the  fat,  amiable  face.  His  tones  became 
exceedingly  soft  and  lazy. 

"  It  is  with  Van  Cleve  I  had  business  to  settle.  I 
have  been  looking  for  him  a  long  time." 

"Then  you  will  come  to  the  house  with  me?" 

She  would  have  passed  on,  but  stopped,  troubled 
and  frightened,  she  knew  not  why.  The  man  had  not 
heard  her;  he  stood  slowly  stroking  his  heavy  chin, 
deliberating.  Certainly  there  was  nothing  dramatic 
in  the  stout  figure  in  its  long  linen,  coat,  low  hat,  and 
boots  sunk  in  the  mud  —  there  was  not  a  trace  of  emo 
tion  on  the  flabby,  apathetic  features,  yet  Lucy  cow 
ered  as  though  she  had  been  brought  face  to  face  with 
a  naked  soul  in  the  crisis  of  its  life. 

"I  have  been  looking  for  him  a  long  time,"  he 


THE  END   OF  THE  VENDETTA  215 

repeated,  consulting  with  himself.  "But  there  is 
Otoga.  They  need  me  in  Otoga." 

There  was  not  a  sound.  Xot  the  fall  of  a  leaf. 
Even  the  incessant  sough  of  the  wind  through  the 
gorges  was  still.  The  world  seemed  to  keep  silence. 

He  looked  up  at  the  cabin;  it  was  but  a  step.  He 
had  been  following  Van  Cleve  for  years. 

He  drew  his  breath  quickly,  thrust  the  bushes 
aside,  and  began  to  climb  the  rock. 

The  sun  suddenly  flashed  out;  a  bird  fluttered  up 
from  the  thicket,  and  perched  on  a  bough  close  beside 
him,  sending  out  a  clear  trill  of  song.  He  stopped 
short,  a  quick,  pleased  heat  coming  to  his  face. 

"Pretty  little  thing,  hey?  It  knows  me,  d'ye  see? 
It's  watching  me." 

He  waited  a  moment  until  the  song  ceased,  and 
then  nervously  adjusted  his  hat. 

"  I'll  go  to  those  poor  devils  in  Otoga.  I  reckon 
that's  the  right  thing  to  do."  And  turning,  he  hastily 
mounted  his  horse. 

Lucy  felt  that  he  was  going  to  his  death,  and  he 
seemed  like  an  old  friend.  She  ran  across  the  road 
and  put  her  hands  up  on  the  horse's  neck. 

"Good-by,"  she  said. 

"Good-by,  Miss  Coyt." 

"  I  will  never  see  you  again !     God  bless  you !  " 

"  Me  9  "  He  looked  at  her,  bewildered.  "  God?  Oh 
yes.  Well,  perhaps  so."  He  rode  down  the  road, 
and  the  stout  figure  and  napping  linen  coat  disappeared 
in  the  fog. 


216  SILHOUETTES   OF  AMERICAN  LIFE 

Four  days  passed.  Dumfort,  who  appeared  to  be  a 
man  of  leisure,  lounged  about  the  cabin,  helping  with 
the  work,  and  occasionally  bringing  news  from  Otoga, 
gathered  from  some  straggler  who  was  flying  from  the 
fever.  He  came  in  one  morning  and  beckoned  Van 
Cleve  out. 

"  There's  one  of  them  poor  wretches  fallen  by  the 
wayside.  He's  got  the  plague.  It's  my  belief  there's 
not  an  hour's  life  in  him." 

"I'll  come."  Van  Cleve  hastily  gathered  some 
simple  remedies;  he  had  not  heroism  enough  to  leave 
his  family  and  sacrifice  his  life  for  his  neighbors,  but 
he  was  a  kindly  fellow,  and  could  not  turn  back  from 
any  dying  creature  creeping  to  his  door.  The  two 
men  went  down  the  mountain  together. 

"I  wanted,"  said  Dumfort,  "to  pull  him  under  a 
rock.  But  he  said,  'No,  let  me  die  out-of-doors.' ' 

"  That  was  a  queer  notion." 

"Yes."  Dumfort  glanced  askance  at  his  compan 
ion.  "  He's  ben  down  doctorin'  them  pore  souls  in 
Otoga.  Went  there  voluntarily.  I  hearn  of  him 
two  days  ago."  After  an  embarrassed  pause,  he 
added,  "He  wants  to  see  you,  Thomas.  You,  per 
sonally." 

"  Me  ?     Who  is  he  ?  "  halting. 

Dumfort  lowered  his  voice  to  a  quick  whisper.  "  It's 
the  man  that's  ben  follerin'  you  an'  your'n,  Thomas." 

Van  Cleve  uttered  an  oath,  but  it  choked  on  his 
lips.  "  An'  he's  dying?  What  does  he  want  of  me?  " 

"God  knows.  I  don't."  The  men  stood  silent. 
"He's  been  doctorin'  them  pore  souls  in  Otoga,"  ven 
tured  Dumfort,  presently. 


THE  END  OF  THE   VENDETTA  217 

Still  Van  Cleve  did  not  move.  Then,  with  a  jerk, 
he  started  down-hill.  "  I'll  go  to  him.  Bring  them 
other  medicines,  Dumfort." 

But  when  he  reached  the  dying  man  ho  saw  that  it 
was  too  late  for  medicines.  He  kneeled  beside  him 
and  lifted  his  head,  motioning  Dumfort  to  stand  back 
ont  of  hearing. 

What  passed  between  them  no  one  but  God  ever 
knew. 

As  the  sun  was  setting  that  day  Van  Cleve  came  to 
the  cabin.  He  was  pale  and  haggard,  but  he  tried  to 
speak  cheerfully. 

"  It  was  a  poor  fellow,  Dorcas,  down  in  the  woods 
as  died  of  the  fever.  Dumfort  an'  I  have  buried  him. 
But  I'd  like  you  an'  Miss  Coyt  to  come  to  the  grave. 
It'd  seem  kinder,  somehow."  He  carried  the  baby  in 
his  arms,  and  when  they  reached  the  place  —  it  was  a 
patch  of  sunny  sward,  where  the  birds  sang  overhead 
—  he  said :  "  Humpty,  I  wish  you'd  kneel  down  on  the 
grave  an'  say  your  little  prayer.  I  think  he'd  know, 
an  'd  feel  better  of  it;  an'  — there's  another  reason." 


The  next  week  Miss  Coyt  received  a  letter  which, 
with  very  red  cheeks,  she  told  Dorcas  would  compel 
her  immediate  return  home.  Mr.  Pettit,  of  whom 
she  had  told  her,  had  received  a  call,  and  had  asked 
her  to  be  his  wife,  and  this  would  put  an  end  to  her 
experiment  of  teaching  in  the  South.  In  a  day  or 
two  Dumfort  drove  her  back  to  Abingdon,  and  the 
little  family  in  the  cabin  returned  to  their  usual 
quiet  routine  of  life. 


A    FADED    LEAF    OF   HISTORY 


ONE  quiet,  winter's  afternoon  I  found  in  a  dark 
corner  of  an  old  library  a  curious  pamphlet. 
It  fell  into  my  hands  like  a  bit  of  old  age  and 
darkness  itself.  The  pages  were  coffee-colored  and 
worn  thin  and  ragged  at  the  edges,  like  rotting 
leaves  in  fall;  they  had  grown  clammy  to  the  touch, 
too,  from  the  grasp  of  so  many  dead  years.  There 
was  a  peculiar  smell  of  herbs  about  the  book  which  it 
had  carried  down  from  the  days  when  young  William 
Penn  went  up  and  down  the  clay  paths  of  his  village 
of  Philadelphia,  stopping  to  watch  the  settlers  fish 
ing  in  the  clear  ponds  or  to  speak  to  the  gangs  of 
yellow-painted  Indians  coming  in  with  peltry  from 
the  adjacent  forest. 

The  leaves  were  scribbled  over  with  the  name  of 
John, — "John,"  in  a  cramped,  childish  hand.  His 
father's  book,  no  doubt,  and  the  writing  a  bit  of  boy 
ish  mischief.  Outside  now,  in  the  street,  the  boys 
were  pelting  each  other  writh  snowballs,  just  as  this 
John  had  done  in  the  clay  paths.  But  for  nearly  two 
hundred  years  his  bones  had  been  crumbled  into  lime 
and  his  flesh  gone  back  into  grass  and  roots.  Yet 
218 


A  FADED   LEAF  OF  HISTORY  219 

here  he  was,  a  boy;  here  was  the  old  pamphlet  and 
the  scrawl  in  yellowing  ink,  with  the  smell  of  herbs 
about  it  still. 

Printed  by  Rainier  Janssen,  1G98.  I  turned  over 
the  leaves,  expecting  to  find  some  "Report  of  the 
Condition  of  the  Principalities  of  New  Netherland, 
or  Xew  Sweden,  for  the  Use  of  the  Lords  High 
Proprietors  thereof"  (for  of  such  precious  dead 
dust  this  library  is  full);  but  I  found,  instead, 
wrapped  in  weighty  sentences  and  backed  by  the 
gravest  and  most  ponderous  testimony,  the  story  of 
a  baby,  "a  Sucking  Child  six  Months  old."  It  was 
like  a  live  seed  in  the  hand  of  a  mummy.  The  story 
of  a  baby  and  a  boy  and  an  aged  man,  in  "the  devour 
ing  Waves  of  the  Sea;  and  also  among  the  cruel 
devouring  Jaws  of  inhuman  Canibals."  There  were, 
it  is  true,  other  divers  persons  in  the  company,  by 
one  of  whom  the  book  is  written.  But  the  divers 
persons  seemed  to  be  only  part  of  that  endless 
caravan  of  ghosts  that  has  been  crossing  the  world 
since  the  beginning;  they  never  can  be  anything  but 
ghosts  to  us.  If  only  to  find  a  human  interest  in 
them,  one  would  rather  they  had  been  devoured  by 
inhuman  cannibals  than  not.  But  a  baby  and  a  boy 
and  an  aged  man ! 

All  that  afternoon,  through  the  dingy  windows 
I  could  see  the  snow  falling  soft  and  steadily, 
covering  the  countless  roofs  of  the  city,  and,  fancy 
ing  the  multitude  of  comfortable  happy  homes  which 
these  white  roofs  hid  and  the  sweet-tempered, 
gracious  women  there,  with  their  children  close  about 
their  knees,  I  thought  I  would  like  to  bring  this 


220  SILHOUETTES  OF  AMERICAN  LIFE 

little  live  baby  back  to  the  others,  with  its  strange, 
pathetic  story,  out  of  the  buried  years  where  it  has 
been  hidden  with  dead  people  so  long,  and  give  it  a 
place  and  home  among  us  all  again. 

I  have  left  the  facts  of  the  history  unaltered,  even 
in  the  names;  and  I  believe  them  to  be,  in  every 
particular,  true. 

On  the  22d  of  August,  1696,  this  baby,  a  puny, 
fretful  boy,  was  carried  down  the  street  of  Port  Koyal, 
Jamaica,  and  on  board  the  "barkentine"  Reforma 
tion,  bound  for  Pennsylvania;  a  Province  which,  as 
you  remember,  Du  Chastellux,  a  hundred  years  later, 
described  as  a  most  savage  country  which  he  was 
compelled  to  cross  on  his  way  to  the  burgh  of  Phila 
delphia,  on  its  border.  To  this  savage  country  our 
baby  was  bound.  He  had  by  way  of  body-guard,  his 
mother,  a  gentle  Quaker  lady;  his  father,  Jonathan 
Dickenson,  a  wealthy  planter,  on  his  way  to  increase 
his  wealth  in  Penn's  new  settlement;  three  negro 
men,  four  negro  women,  and  an  Indian  named  Venus, 
all  slaves  of  the  said  Dickenson ;  the  captain,  his  boy, 
seven  seamen,  and  two  passengers.  Besides  this 
defence,  the  baby's  ship  was  escorted  by  thirteen  sail 
of  merchantmen  under  convoy  of  an  armed  frigate. 
For  these  were  the  days  when,  to  the  righteous  man, 
terror  walked  abroad.  The  green,  quiet  coasts  were 
but  the  lurking-places  of  savages,  and  the  green, 
restless  seas  more  treacherous  with  pirates.  Kidd 
had  not  yet  buried  his  treasure,  but  was  prowling 
up  and  down  the  eastern  seas,  gathering  it  from 
every  luckless  vessel  that  fell  in  his  way.  The 
captain,  Kirle,  debarred  from  fighting  by  cowardice, 


A  FADED  LEAF  OF  HISTORY  221 

and  the  Quaker  Dickenson,  forbidden  by  principle, 
appear  to  have  set  out  upon  their  perilous  journey, 
resolved  to  defend  themselves  by  suspicion,  pure  and 
simple.  They  looked  for  treachery  behind  every  bush 
and  billow;  the  only  chance  of  safety  lay,  they  main 
tained,  in  holding  every  white  man  to  be  an  assassin 
and  every  red  man  a  cannibal  until  they  were  proved 
otherwise. 

The  boy  was  hired  by  Captain  Kirle  to  wait  upon 
him.  His  name  was  John  Hilliard,  and  he  was  pre 
cisely  what  any  of  these  good-humored,  mischievous 
fellows  outside  would  have  been,  hired  on  a  brigantine 
two  centuries  ago;  disposed  to  shirk  his  work  in  order 
to  stand  gaping  at  Black  Ben  fishing,  or  to  rub  up 
secretly  his  old  cutlass  for  the  behoof  of  Kidd,  or  the 
French  when  they  should  come,  Avhile  the  Indian 
Venus  stood  by,  looking  on,  with  the  baby  in  her 
arms. 

The  aged  man  is  invariably  set  down  as  chief  of  the 
company,  though  the  captain  held  all  the  power  and 
the  Quaker  all  the  money.  But  white  hair  and  a 
devout  life  gave  an  actual  social  rank  in  those  days, 
obsolete  now,  and  Robert  Barrow  was  known  as  a  man 
of  God  all  along  the  coast-settlements  from  Massachu 
setts  to  Ashly  Elver,  among  whites  and  Indians. 
Years  before,  in  Yorkshire,  his  inward  testimony  (he 
being  a  Friend)  had  bidden  him  go  preach  in  this 
wilderness.  He  asked  of  God,  it  is  said,  rather  to 
die ;  but  was  not  disobedient  to  the  Heavenly  Call,  and 
came  and  labored  faithfully.  He  was  now  returning 
from  the  West  Indies,  whither  he  had  carried  his 
message  a  year  ago. 


222  SILHOUETTES   OF  AMERICAN  LIFE 

The  wind  set  fair  for  the  first  day  or  two;  the  sun 
was  warm.  Even  the  grim  Quaker  Pickensoii  might 
have  thought  the  white-sailed  fleet  a  pretty  sight  scud 
ding  over  the  rolling  green  plain,  if  he  could  have 
spared  time  to  his  jealous  eyes  from  scanning  the 
horizon  for  pirates.  Our  baby  saw  little  of  sun 
or  sea;  for  having  hardly  vitality  enough  to  live 
from  day  to  day,  it  was  kept  below,  smothered  in 
the  finest  of  linens  and  the  softest  of  paduasoy. 

One  morning  when  the  fog  lifted,  Dickenson 's 
watch  for  danger  was  rewarded.  They  had  lost  their 
way  in  the  night;  the  fleet  was  gone,  the  dead  blue 
slopes  of  water  rolled  up  to  the  horizon  on  every  side 
and  were  met  by  the  dead  blue  sky,  without  the  break 
of  a  single  sail  or  the  flicker  of  a  flying  bird.  For 
fifteen  days  they  beat  about  without  any  apparent  aim 
other  than  to  escape  the  enemies  whom  they  hourly 
expected  to  leap  out  from  behind  the  sky  line.  On 
the  sixteenth  day,  friendly  signs  were  made  to  them 
from  shore.  "A  fire  made  a  great  Smoak,  and  People 
beckoned  to  us  to  putt  on  Shoar,"  but  Kirle  and 
Dickenson,  seized  with  fresh  fright,  put  about  and 
made  off  as  for  their  lives,  until  nine  o'clock  that 
night,  when  seeing  two  signal-lights,  doubtless  from 
some  of  their  own  convoy,  they  cried  out,  "  The 
French!  the  French!"  and  tacked  back  again  as  fast 
as  might  be.  The  next  day,  Kirle  being  disabled  by 
a  jibing  boom,  Dickenson  brought  his  own  terrors 
into  command,  and  for  two  or  three  days  whisked  the 
unfortunate  barkentine  up  and  down  the  coast,  afraid 
of  both  sea  and  shore,  until  finally,  one  night,  he  run 
her  aground  on  a  sand-bar  on  the  Florida  reefs. 


A  FADED  LEAF  OF  HISTORY  223 

Wondering  much  at  this  "judgment  of  God,"  Dicken- 
son  went  to  work.  Indeed,  to  do  him  justice,  he 
seems  to  have  been  always  ready  enough  to  use  his 
burly  strength  and  small  wit,  trusting  to  them  to  carry 
him  through  the  world  wherein  his  soul  was  beleag 
uered  by  many  merciless  judgments  of  God  and  the 
universal  treachery  of  his  brother-man. 

The  crew  abandoned  the  ship  in  a  heavy  storm.  A 
fire  was  kindled  in  the  bight  of  a  sand-hill  and  protected 
as  well  as  might  be  with  sails  and  palmetto  branches ; 
and  to  this,  Dickenson,  with  "  Great  trembling  and 
Pain  of  Hartt,"  carried  his  baby  in  his  own  arms  and 
laid  it  in  its  mother's  breast.  Its  little  body  was 
pitiful  to  see  from  leanness,  and  a  great  fever  was 
upon  it.  Kobert  Barrow,  the  crippled  captain,  and  a 
sick  passenger  shared  the  child's  shelter.  "Where 
upon  two  Cannibals  appeared,  naked,  but  for  a  breech- 
cloth  of  plaited  straw,  with  Countenances  bloody  and 
furious,  and  foaming  at  the  Mouth";  but  on  being 
given  tobacco,  retreated  inland  to  alarm  the  tribe. 
The  ship's  company  gathered  together  and  sat  down 
to  wait  their  return,  expecting  cruelty,  says  Dicken 
son,  and  dreadful  death.  Christianity  was  now  to  be 
brought  face  to  face  with  heatheimess,  which  fact  our 
author  seems  to  have  recognized  under  all  his  terror. 
"  We  began  by  putting  our  trust  in  the  Lord,  hoping 
for  no  Mercy  from  these  bloody-minded  Creatures; 
having  too  few  guns  to  use  except  to  enrage  them,  a 
Motion  arose  among  us  to  deceive  them  by  calling  our 
selves  Spaniards,  that  Nation  having  some  influence 
over  them  " ;  to  which  lie  all  consented,  except  Robert 
Barrow.  It  is  instructive  to  observe  how  these  early 


224  SILHOUETTES  OF  AMERICAN  LIFE 

Christians  met  the  Indians  with  the  same  weapons  of 
distrust  and  fraud  which  have  proved  so  effective  in 
civilizing  them  since. 

In  two  or  three  hours  the  savages  appeared  in  groat 
numbers,  bloody  and  furious,  and  in  their  chronic 
state  of  foaming  at  the  mouth.  "They  rushed  in 
upon  us,  shouting  '  Nickalees?7  (Inglese  9)  To  which 
we  replied  'Espania.7  But  they  cried  the  more 
fiercely,  'No  Espania,  Nickalees ! 7  and  being  greatly 
enraged  thereat,  seized  upon  all  Trunks  and  Chests 
and  our  cloathes  upon  our  Backs,  leaving  us  each 
only  a  pair  of  old  Breeches,  except  Robert  Barrow, 
my  wife,  and  child  from  whom  they  took  nothing." 
The  king,  or  Cassekey,  as  Dickenson  calls  him, 
distinguished  by  a  horsetail  fastened  to  his  belt  be 
hind,  took  possession  of  their  money  and  buried  it, 
at  which  the  good  Quaker  spares  not  his  prayers  for 
punishment  on  all  pagan  robbers,  quite  blind  to  the 
poetic  justice  of  the  burial,  as  the  money  had  been 
made  on  land  stolen  from  the  savages.  The  said 
Cassekey  also  set  up  his  abode  in  their  tent;  kept  all 
his  tribe  away  from  the  woman  and  child  and  aged 
man;  kindled  fires;  caused,  as  a  delicate  attention, 
the  only  hog  remaining  on  the  wreck  to  be  killed  and 
brought  to  them  for  a  midnight  meal ;  and,  in  short, 
comported  himself  so  hospitably  and  with  such  kindly 
consideration  toward  the  broad-brimmed  Quaker,  that 
we  are  inclined  to  account  him  the  better  gentleman 
of  the  two,  in  spite  of  his  scant  costume  of  horsetail 
and  belt  of  straw.  As  for  the  robbery  of  the  ship's 
cargo,  no  doubt  the  Cassekey  had  progressed  far 
enough  in  civilization  to  know  that  to  the  victors 


A  FADED  LEAF  OF  HISTORY  225 

belong  the  spoils.  Florida,  for  two  years,  had  been 
stricken  down  from  coast  to  coast  by  a  deadly  famine, 
and  in  all  probability  these  cannibals  returned  thanks 
to  whatever  god  they  had  for  this  windfall  of  food 
and  clothes  devoutly  as  our  forefathers  were  doing 
at  the  other  end  of  the  country  for  the  homes  which 
they  had  taken  by  force.  There  is  a  good  deal  of  kin 
ship  among  us  in  circumstances  after  all,  as  well  as  in 
blood.  The  chief  undoubtedly  recognized  a  brother 
in  Diekenson,  every  whit  as  tricky  as  himself,  and 
would  fain,  savage  as  he  was,  have  proved  him  to  be 
something  better;  for,  after  having  protected  them  for 
several  days,  he  came  into  their  tent  and  gravely  and 
with  authority  set  himself  to  asking  the  old  question, 
"Nickalees?" 

"  To  which,  when  we  denied,  he  directed  his  Speech 
to  the  Aged  Man,  who  would  not  conceal  the  Truth, 
but  answered  in  Simplicity,  'Yes.'  Then  he  cried  in 
Wrath  'Totus  Nickalees ! '  and  went  out  from  us.  But 
returned  in  great  fury  with  his  men  and  stripped  all 
Cloathes  from  us." 

However,  the  clothes  were  returned,  and  the  chief 
persuaded  them  to  hasten  on  to  his  own  village. 
Diekenson,  suspecting  foul  play  as  usual,  insisted  on 
going  to  Santa  Lucia.  There,  the  Indian  told  him, 
they  would  meet  fierce  savages  and  undoubtedly  have 
their  throats  cut,  which  kindly  warning  was  quite 
enough  to  drive  the  Quaker  to  Santa  Lucia  headlong. 
He  was  sure  of  the  worst  designs  on  the  part  of  the 
cannibal,  from  a  strange  glance  which  he  fixed  upon 
the  baby  as  he  drove  them  before  him  to  his  village, 
saying  with  a  treacherous  laugh,  that  after  they  had 


226  SILHOUETTES   OF  AMERICA!?  LIFE 

gone  there  for  a  purpose  lie  had,  they  might  go  to 
ftaiita  Lucia  as  they  would. 

It  was  a  bleak,  chilly  afternoon  as  they  toiled  mile 
after  mile  along  the  beach,  the  Quaker  woman  far 
behind  the  others  with  her  baby  in  her  arms,  carry 
ing  it,  as  she  thought,  to  its  death.  Overhead,  flocks 
of  dark-winged  grakles  swooped  across  the  lowering 
sky,  uttering  from  time  to  time  their  harsh  forebod 
ing  cry;  shoreward,  as  far  as  the  eye  could  see,  the 
sand  stretched  in  interminable  yellow  ridges,  black 
ened  here  and  there  by  tufts  of  dead  palmetto  trees ; 
while  on  the  other  side  the  sea  had  wrapped  itself  in 
a  threatening  silence  and  darkness.  A  line  of  white 
foam,  crept  out  of  it  from  horizon  to  horizon,  dumb 
and  treacherous,  and  licked  the  mother's  feet  as  she 
dragged  herself  heavily  after  the  others. 

From  time  to  time  the  Indian  stealthily  peered  over 
her  shoulder,  looking  at  the  child's  thin  face  as  it 
slept  upon  her  breast.  As  evening  closed  in,  they 
came  to  a  broad  arm  of  the  sea  thrust  inland  through 
the  beach,  and  halted  at  the  edge.  Beyond  it,  in  the 
darkness,  they  could  distinguish  the  yet  darker  shapes 
of  the  wigwams,  and  savages  gathered  about  two  or 
three  enormous  fires  that  threw  long  red  lines  of  glare 
into  the  sea-fog.  "  As  we  stood  there  for  many  Hour's 
Time,"  says  Jonathan  Dickens  on,  "we  were  assured 
these  Dreadful  Fires  were  prepared  for  us." 

Of  all  the  sad  little  company  that  stand  out  against 
the  far-off  dimness  of  the  past,  in  that  long  watch 
upon  the  beach,  the  low-voiced,  sweet-tempered  Quaker 
lady  comes  nearest  to  us. 

The  sailors  had  chosen  a  life  of  peril  years  ago;  her 


A  FADED   LEAF   OF  II IS  TO  II Y  227 

husband,  with  all  his  suspicious  bigotry,  had,  when 
pushed  to  extremes,  an  admirable  tough  coinage  witli 
which  to  face  the  dangers  of  sea  and  night  and  death; 
and  the  white-headed  old  man,  who  stood  apart  and 
calm,  had  received,  as  much  as  Elijah  of  old,  a  Divine 
word  to  speak  in  the  wilderness,  and  the  life  in  it 
would  sustain  him  through  death.  But  Mary  Dicken- 
son  was  only  a  gentle,  commonplace  woman,  whose  life 
had  been  spent  on  a  quiet  farm,  whose  highest  ambi 
tion  was  to  take  care  of  her  snug  little  house,  and  all  of 
whose  brighter  thoughts  of  romance  or  passion  began 
and  ended  in  this  staid  Quaker  and  the  baby  that  was 
a  part  of  them  both.  It  was  only  six  months  ago  that 
this  first-born  child  had  been  laid  in  her  arms ;  and  as 
she  lay  on  the  white  bed  looking  out  on  the  spring 
dawning  day  after  day,  her  husband  sat  beside  her 
telling  her  again  and  again  of  the  house  he  had  made 
ready  for  her  in  Penn's  new  settlement.  She  never 
tired  of  hearing  of  it.  Some  picture  of  this  far-off 
home  must  have  come  to  the  poor  girl  as  she  stood 
now  in  the  night,  the  sea-water  creeping  up  to  her 
naked  feet,  looking  at  the  fires  built,  as  she  believed, 
for  her  child. 

Toward  midnight  a  canoe  came  from  the  opposite 
side,  into  which  the  chief  put  Barrow,  Dickenson, 
the  child,  and  its  mother.  Their  worst  fears  being 
thus  confirmed,  they  crossed  in  silence^  holding  each 
other  by  the  hand,  the  poor  baby  moaning  now  and 
then.  It  had  indeed  been  born  tired  into  the  world, 
and  had  gone  moaning  its  weak  life  out  ever  since. 

Landing  on  the  farther  beach,  the  crowd  of  waiting 
Indians  fled  from  them  as  if  frightened,  and  halted  in 


228  SILHOUETTES  OF  AMERICAN  LIFE 

the  darkness  beyond  the  fires.  But  the  Cassekey 
dragged  them  on  toward  a  wigwam,  taking  Mary  and 
the  child  before  the  others.  "Herein,"  says  her  hus 
band,  "was  the  Wife  of  the  Canibal,  and  some  old 
Women  sitting  on  a  Cabbin  made  of  Sticks  about  a 
Foot  high,  and  covered  with  a  Matt.  He  made  signs 
for  us  to  sitt  down  on  the  Ground,  Avhich  we  did.  The 
Cassekey 's  Wife  looking  at  my  Child  and  having  her 
own  Child  in  her  lapp,  putt  it  away  to  another 
Woman,  and  rose  upp  and  would  not  bee  denied,  but 
would  have  my  Child.  She  took  it  and  suckled  it  at 
her  Breast,  feeling  it  from  Top  to  Toe,  and  viewing 
it  with  a  sad  Countenance." 

The  starving  baby,  being  thus  warmed  and  fed, 
stretched  its  little  arms  and  legs  out  on  the  savage 
breast  comfortably  and  fell  into  a  happy  sleep,  while 
its  mother  sat  apart  and  looked  on. 

"An  Indian  did  kindly  bring  to  her  a  Fish  upon  a 
Palmetto  Leaf  and  set  it  down  before  her;  but  the 
Pain  and  Thoughts  within  her  were  so  great  that  she 
could  not  eat." 

The  rest  of  the  crew  having  been  brought  over,  the 
chief  set  himself  to  work  and  speedily  had  a  wigwam 
built,  in  which  mats  were  spread,  and  the  shipwrecked 
people,  instead  of  being  killed  and  eaten,  went  to 
sleep  just  as  the  moon  rose,  and  the  Indians  began  "  A 
Consert  of  hideous  Noises,"  of  welcome. 

Dickenson  and  his  band  remained  in  this  Indian 
village  for  several  days,  endeavoring  all  the  time  to 
escape,  in  spite  of  the  kind  treatment  of  the  chief, 
who  appears  to  have  shared  all  that  he  had  with  them. 
The  Quaker  kept  a  constant,  fearful  watch,  lest  there 


A  FADED  LEAF  OF  HISTORY  229 

might  be  death  in  the  pot.  When  the  Cassckey  found 
they  were  resolved  to  go,  he  set  out  for  the  wreck, 
bringing  back  a  boat  which  was  given  to  them,  with 
butter,  sugar,  a  rundlet  of  wine,  and  chocolate;  to 
Mary  and  the  child  he  also  gave  everything  which  he 
thought  would  be  useful  to  them.  This  friend  in  the 
wilderness  appeared  sorry  to  part  with  them,  but 
Dickenson  was  blind  both  to  friendship  and  sorrow, 
and  obstinately  took  the  direction  against  which  the 
chief  warned  him,  suspecting  treachery,  "though  we 
found  afterward  that  his  counsell  was  good." 

Kobert  Barrow,  Mary,  and  the  child,  with  two  sick 
men,  went  in.  a  canoe  along  the  coast,  keeping  the 
crew  in  sight,  who,  with  the  boy,  travelled  on  foot, 
sometimes  singing  as  they  marched.  So  they  began 
the  long  and  terrible  journey,  the  later  horrors  of 
which  I  dare  not  give  in  the  words  here  set  down. 
The  first  weeks  were  painful  and  disheartening, 
although  they  still  had  food.  Their  chief  discomfort 
arose  from  the  extreme  cold  at  night  and  the  tortures 
from  the  sand-flies  and  mosquitoes  on  their  exposed 
bodies,  which  they  tried  to  remedy  by  covering  them 
selves  with  sand,  but  found  sleep  impossible. 

At  last,  however,  they  met  the  fiercer  savages  of 
whom  the  chief  had  warned  them,  and  practised  upon 
them  the  same  device  of  calling  themselves  Spaniards. 
By  this  time,  one  would  suppose,  even  Dickenson 's 
dull  eyes  would  have  seen  the  fatal  idiocy  of  the  lie. 
"Crying  out  'Nickalees  No  Espanier,'  they  rushed 
upon  us,  rending  the  few  Cloathes  from  us  that  we 
had;  they  took  all  from  my  Wife,  even  tearing  her 
Hair  out,  to  get  at  the  Lace,  wherewith  it  was 


230  SILHOUETTES   OF  AMERICAN  LIFE 

knotted."  They  were  then  dragged  furiously  into 
canoes  and  rowed  to  the  village,  being  stoned  and  shot 
at  as  they  went.  The  child  was  stripped,  while  one 
savage  filled  its  mouth  with  sand. 

But  at  that  the  chief's  wife  came  quickly  to  Mary 
and  protected  her  from  the  sight  of  all,  and  took  the 
sand  out  of  the  child's  mouth,  entreating  it  very  ten 
derly,  whereon  the  mass  of  savages  fell  back,  mutter 
ing  and  angry. 

The  same  woman  brought  the  poor  naked  lady  to 
her  wigwam,  quieted  her,  found  some  raw  deerskins, 
and  showed  her  how  to  cover  herself  and  the  baby 
with  them. 

The  tribe  among  which  they  now  were  had  borne 
the  famine  for  two  years ;  their  emaciated  and  hunger- 
bitten  faces  gave  fiercer  light  to  their  gloomy,  treach 
erous  eyes.  Their  sole  food  was  fish  and  palmetto 
berries,  both  of  which  were  scant.  Nothing  could 
have  been  more  unwelcome  than  the  advent  of  this 
crowd  of  whites,  bringing  more  hungry  mouths  to  fill; 
and,  indeed,  there  is  little  reason  to  doubt  that  the 
first  intention  was  to  put  them  all  to  death.  But, 
after  the  second  day,  Dickenson  relates  that  the  chief 
"  looked  pleasantly  upon  my  Wife  and  Child  " ;  instead 
of  the  fish  entrails  and  filthy  water  in  which  the  fish 
had  been  cooked  which  had  been  given  to  the  prison 
ers,  he  brought  clams  to  Mary,  and  kneeling  in  the 
sand  showed  her  how  to  roast  them.  The  Indian 
women,  too,  carried  off  the  baby,  knowing  that  its 
mother  had  no  milk  for  it,  and  handed  it  about  from 
one  to  the  other,  putting  away  their  own  children  that 
they  might  give  it  their  food.  At  which  the  child, 


A   FADED  LEAF  OF  HISTORY  231 

who,  when  it  had  been  wrapped  in  fine  flannel  and 
embroidery  had  been  always  nigh  to  death,  began  to 
grow  fat  and  rosy,  to  crow  and  laugh  as  it  had  never 
done  before,  and  kick  its  little  legs  sturdily  about 
under  their  bit  of  raw  skin  covering.  Mother  Nature 
had  taken  the  child  home,  and  was  breathing  new 
lusty  life  into  it,  out  of  the  bare  ground  and  open 
sky,  the  sun  and  wind,  and  the  breasts  of  tlrese  her 
children;  but  its  father  saw  in  the  change  only 
another  inexplicable  miracle  of  God.  Nor  does  he 
seem  to  have  seen  that  it  was  the  child  who  had 
been  a  protection  and  shield  to  the  whole  crew  and 
saved  them  through  this  their  most  perilous  strait. 

We  can  imagine  what  the  journey  on  foot  along 
the  bleak  coast  in  winter,  through  tribe  after  tribe 
of  hostile  savages,  must  have  been  to  delicately 
nurtured  men  and  women,  naked  but  for  a  piece  of 
raw  deerskin,  and  utterly  without  food  save  for  the 
few  nauseous  berries  or  offal  rejected  by  the  Indians. 
In  their  ignorance  of  the  coast  they  wandered  farther 
and  farther  out  of  their  way  into  those  morasses  which 
an  old  writer  calls  "the  refuge  of  all  unclean  birds 
and  the  breeding-fields  of  all  reptiles."  Once  a  tidal 
wave  swept  down  into  a  vast  marsh  where  they  had 
built  their  fire,  and  air  and  ground  slowly  darkened 
with  the  swarming  living  creatures,  whirring,  creep 
ing  about  them  through  the  night,  and  uttering  gloomy, 
dissonant  cries.  Many  of  these  strange  companions 
and  some  savages  found  their  way  to  the  hill  of  oyster- 
shells  where  the  crew  fled,  and  remained  there  for  the 
two  dciys  and  nights  in  which  the  flood  lasted. 

Our  baby  accepted  all  fellow-travellers  cheerfully; 


232  SILHOUETTES   OF  AMERICAN  LIFE 

made  them  welcome,  indeed.  Savage  or  slave  or 
beast  were  his  friends  alike,  his  laugh  and  outstretched 
hands  were  ready  for  them  all.  The  aged  man,  too, 
Dickenson  tells  us,  remained  hopeful  and  calm,  even 
when  the  slow-coming  touch  of  death  had  begun  to 
chill  and  stiffen  him,  and  in  the  presence  of  the  can 
nibals  assuring  his  companions  cheerfully  of  his  faith 
that  they  would  yet  reach  home  in  safety.  Even  in 
that  strange,  forced  halt,  when  Mary  Dickenson  could 
do  nothing  but  stand  still  and  watch  the  sea  closing 
about  them,  creeping  up  and  up  like  a  visible  death, 
the  old  man's  prayers  and  the  baby's  laugh  must  have 
kept  the  thought  of  her  far  home  near  and  warm  to 
her. 

They  escaped  the  sea  to  fall  into  worse  dangers. 
Disease  was  added  to  starvation.  One  by  one  strong 
men  dropped  exhausted  by  the  way,  and  were  left 
unburied,  while  the  others  crept  feebly  on;  stout 
Jonathan  Dickenson  taking  as  his  charge  the  old  man, 
now  almost  a  helpless  burden.  Mary,  who,  under 
neath  her  gentle,  timid  ways,  seems  to  have  had  a 
gallant  heart  in  her  little  body,  carried  her  baby  to 
the  last,  until  the  milk  in  her  breast  was  quite  dried 
and  her  eyes  grew  blind,  and  she  too  fell  one  day 
beside  the  poor  negress  who,  with  her  unborn  child,  lay 
frozen  and  dead,  saying  that  she  was  tired,  and  that 
the  time  had  come  for  her  too  to  go.  Dickenson 
lifted  her  and  struggled  on. 

The  child  was  taken  by  the  negroes  and  sailors. 
These  coarse,  famished  men,  often  fighting  like  wild 
animals  with  each  other,  staggering  under  weakness 
and  bodily  pain,  carried  the  heavy  baby,  never  com- 


A  FADED  LEAF  OF  HISTORY  233 

plaining  of  its  weight,  thinking,  it  may  be,  of  some 
child  of  their  own  whom  they  would  never  see  or 
touch  again. 

We  can  understand  better  the  mystery  of  that  Divine 
Childhood  that  was  once  in  the  world,  when  we  hear 
how  these  poor  slaves,  unasked,  gave  of  their  dying 
strength  to  this  child;  how,  in  tribes  through  which 
no  white  man  had  ever  travelled  alive,  it  was  passed 
from  one  savage  mother  to  the  other,  tenderly  handled, 
nursed  at  their  breasts;  how  a  gentler,  kindlier  spirit 
seemed  to  come  from  the  presence  of  the  baby  and  its 
mother  to  the  crew;  so  that,  while  at  first  they  had 
cursed  and  fought  their  way  along,  they  grew  at  the 
last  helpful  and  tender  with  each  other,  often  going 
back,  when  to  go  back  was  death,  for  the  comrade 
who  dropped  by  the  way,  and  bringing  him  on  until 
they  too  lay  down,  and  were  at  rest  together. 

It  was  through  the  baby  that  deliverance  came  to 
them  at  last.  The  story  that  a  white  woman  and  a 
beautiful  child  had  been  wandering  all  winter  through 
the  deadly  swamps  was  carried  from  one  tribe  to 
another  until  it  reached  the  Spanish  fort  at  St.  Augus 
tine.  One  day,  therefore,  when  near  their  last  extrem 
ity,  they  "  saw  a  Perre-augoe  approaching  by  sea  filled 
with  soldiers,  bearing  a  letter  signifying  the  governor 
of  St.  Augustine's  greatt  Care  for  our  Preservation, 
of  what  ISTation  soever  we  were."  The  journey,  how 
ever,  had  to  be  made  on  foot ;  and  it  was  more  than 
two  weeks  before  Dickenson,  the  old  man,  Mary  and 
the  child,  and  the  last  of  the  crew,  reached  St. 
Augustine. 

"We  came  thereto,"   he    says,    "about  two  hours 


234  SILHOUETTES  OF  AMERICAN  LIFE 

before  Night,  and  were  directed  to  the  governor's 
house,  where  we  were  led  up  a  pair  of  stairs,  at  the 
Head  whereof  stood  the  governor,  who  ordered  my 
Wife  to  be  conducted  to  his  Wife's  Apartment." 

There  is  something  in  the  picture  of  poor  Mary, 
after  her  months  of  starvation  and  nakedness,  coming 
into  a  lady's  chamber  again,  "where  was  a  Fire  and 
Bath  and  Cloathes, "  which  has  a  curious  pathos  in  it 
to  a  woman. 

Robert  Barrow  and  Dickenson  were  given  clothes, 
and  a  plentiful  supper  set  before  them. 

St.  Augustine  was  then  a  collection  of  a  few  old 
houses  grouped  about  the  fort;  only  a  garrison,  in 
fact,  half  supported  by  the  king  of  Spain  and  half  by 
the  Church  of  Rome.  Its  three  hundred  male  inhabi 
tants  were  either  soldiers  or  priests,  dependent  for 
supplies  of  money,  clothing,  or  bread  upon  Havana; 
and  as  the  famine  had  lasted  for  two  years,  and  it  was 
then  three  since  a  vessel  had  reached  them  from  any 
place  whatever,  their  poverty  was  extreme.  They 
were  all,  too,  the  "false  Catholicks  and  hireling 
Priests"  whom,  beyond  all  others,  Dickenson  dis 
trusted  and  hated.  Yet  the  grim  Quaker's  hand 
seems  to  tremble  as  he  writes  down  the  record  of  their 
exceeding  kindness;  of  how  they  welcomed  them, 
looking,  as  they  did,  like  naked  furious  beasts,  and 
cared  for  them  as  if  they  were  their  brothers.  The 
governor  of  the  fort  clothed  the  crew  warmly,  and  out 
of  his  .own  great  penury  fed  them  abundantly.  He 
was  a  reserved  and  silent  man,  with  a  grave  courtesy 
and  odd  gentle  care  for  the  xwoman  and  child  that 
make  him  quite  real  to  us.  Dickenson  does  not  even 


A  FADED  LEAF  OF  HISTORY  235 

give  his  name.  Yet  it  is  worth  much  to  us  to  know 
that  a  brother  of  us  all  lived  on  that  solitary  Florida 
coast  two  centuries  ago,  whether  he  was  pagan,  Prot 
estant,  or  priest. 

When  they  had  rested  for  some  time,  the  governor 
furnished  canoes  and  an  escort  to  take  them  to  Caro 
lina,, —  a  costly  outfit  in  those  days, — whereupon 
Dickenson,  stating  that  he  was  a  man  of  substance, 
insisted  upon  returning  some  of  the  charges  to  which 
the  governor  and  people  had  been  put  as  soon  as  he 
reached  Carolina.  But  the  Spaniard  smiled  and 
refused  the  offer,  saying  whatever  he  did  was  done  for 
God's  sake.  When  the  day  came  that  they  must  go, 
"he  walked  down  to  see  us  embark,  and  taking  our 
Farewel,  he  embraced  some  of  us,  and  wished  us  well 
saying  that  We  should  forget  him  when  we  got  amongst 
our  own  nation;  and  I  also  added  that  If  we  forgot 
him,  God  would  not  forget  him,  and  thus  we  parted." 

The  mischievous  boy,  John  Hilliard,  was  found  to 
have  hidden  in  the  woods  until  the  crew  were  gone, 
and  remained  ever  after  in  the  garrison  with  the  grave 
Spaniards,  with  whom  he  was  a  favorite. 

The  voyage  to  Carolina  occupied  the  month  of 
December,  being  made  in  open  canoes,  which  kept 
close  to  the  shore,  the  crew  disembarking  and  en 
camping  each  night.  Dickenson  tells  with  open-eyed 
wonder  how  the  Spaniards  kept  their  holiday  of 
Christmas  in  the  open  boat  and  through  a  driving 
northeast  storm ;  praying,  and  then  tinkling  a  piece  of 
iron  for  music,  and  singing,  and  also  begging  gifts 
from  the  Indians,  who  begged  from  them  in  their 
turn ;  and  what  one  gave  to  the  other,  that  they  gave 


236  SILHOUETTES   OF  AMERICAN  LIFE 

back  again.  Our  baby  at  least,  let  us  hope,  had 
Christmas  feeling  enough  to  understand  the  laughing 
and  hymn-singing  in  the  face  of  the  storm. 

At  the  lonely  little  hamlet  of  Charleston  (a  few 
farms  cut  out  of  the  edge  of  the  wilderness)  the 
adventurers  were  received  with  eagerness;  even  the 
Spanish  escort  were  exalted  into  heroes,  and  enter 
tained  and  rewarded  by  the  gentlemen  of  the  town. 
Here  too  Dickenson  and  Kirle  sent  back  generous 
gifts  to  the  soldiers  of  St.  Augustine,  and  a  token  of 
remembrance  to  their  friend,  the  governor.  After  two 
months'  halt,  "on  the  eighteenth  of  the  first  month, 
called  March,"  they  embarked  for  Pennsylvania,  and 
on  a  bright  cold  morning  in  April  came  in  sight  of 
their  new  home  of  Philadelphia.  The  river  was  gay 
with  a  dozen  sail,  and  as  many  brightly  painted 
Indian  pirogues  darting  here  and  there;  a  ledge  of 
green  banks  rose  from  the  water's  edge  dark  with 
gigantic  hemlocks,  and  pierced  with  the  caves  in  which 
many  of  the  settlers  yet  lived;  while  between  the 
bank  and  the  forest  were  one  or  two  streets  of  mud- 
huts  and  of  low  hipped-roofed  stone  houses  sparkling 
with  mica,  among  which  gray-coated,  silent  Friends 
went  up  and  down. 

The  stern  Quaker  had  come  to  his  own  people 
again;  the  very  sun  had  a  familiar  home  look  for 
the  first  time  in  his  journey.  We  can  believe  that 
he  rejoiced  in  his  own  protesting  way;  gave  thanks 
that  he  had  escaped  the  judgments  of  God,  and  closed 
his  righteous  gates  thereafter  on  aught  that  was  alien 
or  savage. 

The  aged  man  rejoiced  in  a  different  way ;  for  being 


A  FADED   LEAF   OF  HISTORY  237 

carried  carefully  to  the  shore  by  many  friends,  they 
knowing  that  he  was  soon  to  leave  them,  he  "  put  out 
his  hand,  ready  to  embrace  them  in  much  love,  and 
in  a  tender  frame  of  spirit,  saying  gladly  that  the 
Lord  had  answered  his  desire,  and  brought  him  home 
to  lay  his  bones  among  them."  From  the  windows  of 
this  dusky  library,  I  can  see  the  spot  now,  where,  after 
his  long  journey,  he  rested  for  a  happy  day  or  two, 
looking  upon  the  dear  familiar  faces  and  waving  trees 
and  the  sunny  April  sky,  and  then  gladly  bade  them 
farewell  and  passed  out  of  sight. 

Mary  had  come  at  last  to  the  pleasant  home  that 
had  been  waiting  so  long  for  her,  and  there,  no  doubt, 
she  nursed  her  baby,  and  clothed  him  in  soft  fooleries 
again,  and,  let  us  hope,  out  of  the  fulness  of  her  soul, 
not  only  prayed,  but,  Quaker  as  she  wras,  sang  idle, 
joyous  songs,  when  her  husband  was  out  of  hearing. 

But  the  baby,  who  knew  nothing  of  the  judgments 
of  God,  and  who  could  neither  pray  nor  sing,  only 
had  learned  in  these  desperate  straits  to  grow  strong 
in  the  touch  of  sun  and  wind,  and  to  hold  out  its 
arms  to  friend  or  foe,  slave  or  savage,  sure  of  a 
welcome,  and  so  came  closer  to  God  than  any  of 
them  all. 

Jonathan  Dickenson  became  a  power  in  the  new 
principality;  there  are  vague  traditions  of  his  strict 
rule  as  mayor,  his  stately  equipages  and  vast  estates. 
Xo  doubt,  if  I  chose  to  search  among  the  old  musty 
records,  I  could  find  the  history  of  his  son.  But  I  do 
not  choose;  I  wrill  not  believe  that  he  ever  grew  to 
be  a  man,  or  died. 

He  will  always  be  to  us  simply  a  baby;  a  live, 


238  SILHOUETTES   OF  AMERICAN  LIFE 

laughing  baby,  sent  by  his  Master  to  the  desolate 
places  of  the  earth  with  the  old  message  of  love 
and  universal  brotherhood  to  His  children;  and  I 
like  to  believe  too,  that  as  he  lay  in  the  arms  of  his 
savage  foster-mothers,  taking  life  from  their  life, 
Christ  so  took  him  into  His  own  arms  and  blessed 
him. 


THE  YAEES  OF  THE  BLACK  MOUNTAINS 

A    TRUE    STORY 

D   FOKT!" 

The  shackly  little  train  jolted  into  the  middle 
of  an  unploughed  field  and  stopped.  The  railway  was 
at  an  end.  A  group  of  Northern  summer-tourists, 
with  satchels  and  water-proofs  in  shawl-straps,  came 
out  of  the  car  and  looked  about  them.  It  was  but  a 
few  years  after  the  war,  and  the  South  was  unexplored 
ground  to  them.  They  had  fallen  together  at  Kicli- 
mond,  and  by  the  time  they  had  reached  this  out-of- 
the-way  corner  of  North  Carolina  were  the  best  of 
boon  companions,  and  wondered  why  they  had  never 
found  each  other  out  in  the  world  before.  Yet, 
according  to  American  habit,  it  was  a  mere  chance 
whether  the  acquaintance  strengthened  into  lifelong 
friendship  or  ended  with  a  nod  in  the  next  five 
minutes. 

It  bade  fair  just  now  to  take  the  latter  turn. 

Nesbitt,  who  had  been  in  consultation  with  two  men 
who  were  ploughing  at  the  side  of  the  station,  came 
hurrying  up:  "Civilization  stops  here,  it  appears. 
Thirty  miles7  staging  to  Asheville,  and  after  that  carts 
and  mules.  The  mails  come,  like  the  weather,  at  tho 

239 


240  SILHOUETTES  OF  AMERICAN  LIFE 

will  of  Providence.  I  think  I  shall  explore  no  farther. 
When  does  your  train  go  back,  conductor?  " 

"The  scenery  disappoints  me/'  said  Miss  Cook, 
bridging  her  nose  with  her  eye-glasses.  "  It  lacks  the 
element  of  grandeur." 

"You'll  find  it  lacking  in  more  than  that  beyond," 
said  a  Detroit  man  who  had  come  down  to  speculate 
in  lumber.  "Nothing  but  mountains,  and  balsam 
timber  as  spongy  as  punk.  A  snake  couldn't  get  his 
living  out  of  ten  acres  of  it." 

Across  the  field  was  a  two-roomed  wooden  house, 
over  which  a  huge  board  was  mounted  whereon  was 
scrawled  with  tar,  "Dinner  and  BAB-BOOM."  They 
all  went,  stumbling  over  the  lumpy  meadow,  toward 
it.  Miss  Cook,  who  was  always  good-humored  except 
on  aesthetic  questions,  carried  the  baby's  satchel  with 
her  own. 

"Shall  you  go  on?"  she  asked  the  baby's  mother. 
"The  conductor  says  the  mountains  are  inaccessible 
to  women." 

"  Of  course.  Why,  he  has  slept  every  night  since 
we  came  on  to  high  land." 

"  I  doubt  very  much  whether  the  cloud-effects  will 
be  as  good  as  in  the  White  Mountains.  The  sky  is 
too  warm."  This  was  said  thoughtfully. 

"  He  has  one  stomach-tooth  almost  through.  The 
balsam-air  will  be  such  a  tonic!  We'll  go  up  if  it  is 
on  foot,  won't  we,  Charley?"  And  she  buried  her 
face  in  the  roll  of  blanket. 

There  was  a  fine  odor  of  burnt  beans  and  whiskey 
in  the  hot  little  parlor  of  the  house,  with  its  ragged 
horsehair  chairs  and  a  fly-blown  print  of  the  "  Death 


THE   TARES   OF   THE  BLACK  MOUNTAINS      241 

of  Robert  E.  Lee  "  on  the  wall.  On  the  other  side  of 
the  hall  was  the  bar-room,  where  a  couple  of  red-faced 
Majors  in  homespun  trousers  and  shirts  were  treating 
the  conductor.  It  was  a  domestic-looking  bar-room 
after  all,  in  spite  of  red  noses  and  whiskey:  there 
were  one  or  two  geraniums  in  the  window,  and  a  big 
gray  cat  lay  asleep  beside  them  on  the  sill. 

One  of  the  Majors  came  to  Baby's  mother  in  the 
parlor.  "  There  is  a  rocking-chair  in  the  —  the  oppo 
site  apartment,"  he  said,  "and  the  air  will  be  better 
there  for  the  child.  A  very  fine  child,  madam!  very 
fine,  indeed !  " 

She  said  yes,  it  was,  and  followed  him.  He  gave 
Baby  a  sprig  of  geranium,  bowed  and  went  out,  while 
the  other  men  began  to  discuss  a  Methodist  camp- 
meeting,  and  the  barkeeper  shoved  a  newspaper  over 
his  bottles  and  worked  anxiously  at  his  daybook. 
The  other  passengers  all  went  to  dinner,  but  Xesbitt 
was  back  at  her  side  in  five  minutes. 

"I'm  glad  you  stayed  here,"  he  said.  "There  is  a 
bare  wooden  table  set  in  a  shed  out  yonder,  and  a 
stove  alongside  where  the  cooking  goes  on.  You 
would  not  have  wanted  to  taste  food  for  a  month  if 
you  had  seen  the  fat  pork  and  corn-bread  which  they 
are  shovelling  down  with  iron  forks.  Now,  if  I 
thought  —  if  we  wrere  going  to  rough  it  in  the  moun 
tains  —  camp-fire,  venison,  trout  cooked  by  ourselves, 
and  all  that  sort  of  thing,  I'd  be  with  you.  But  this 
civilized  beastliness  I  don't  like  —  never  did.  I'll 
take  this  train  back,  and  strike  the  trunk-line  at 
Charlotte,  and  try  Texas  for  my  summer  holiday.  I 
must  be  off  at  once." 


242  SILHOUETTES   OF  AMERICAN  LIFE 

"  Good-bye,  then,  Mr.  Nesbitt.  I  am  sorry  you  are 
not  going:  you've  been  so  kind  to  Charley." 

"  Not  at  all.  Good-bye,  and  God  bless  you,  little 
chap!"  stopping  to  put  his  ringer  in  the  baby's  thin 
hand.  He  was  quite  sure  the  little  woman  in  black 
would  never  bring  her  child  back  from  the  mountains. 

"I'm  glad  he's  gone,"  said  Miss  Cook,  coming  in 
from  the  shed.  "  It's  absurd,  the  row  American  men 
make  about  their  eating  away  from  home.  They 
want  Delmonico's  table  set  at  every  railway-station." 

"You  will  go  up  into  the  mountains,  then?" 

"Yes.  I've  only  three  weeks'  vacation,  and  I  can 
get  farther  from  my  usual  rut,  both  as  to  scenery  and 
people,  here  than  anywhere  else.  I've  been  writing 
on  political  economy  lately,  and  my  brain  needs  com 
plete  change  of  idea.  You  know  how  it  is  yourself. " 

"No,  I  — "  She  unlocked  her  satchel,  and  as  she 
took  out  Baby's  powder  looked  furtively  at  Miss 
Cook.  This  tight  little  person,  buckled  snugly  into 
a  waterproof  suit,  her  delicate  face  set  off  by  a  brown 
hat  and  feather,  talking  political  economy  and  slang 
in  a  breath,  was  a  new  specimen  of  human  nature  to 
her. 

She  gave  the  powder,  and  then  the  two  women  went 
out  and  deposited  themselves  and  their  wraps  in  a  red 
stage  which  waited  at  the  door.  A  fat,  jolly-faced 
woman,  proprietor  of  the  shed  and  cooking-stove,  ran 
out  with  a  bottle  of  warm  milk  for  the  child,  the 
Carolinian  majors  and  barkeeper  took  off  their  hats, 
the  Detroit  man  nodded  with  his  on  his  head,  and 
with  a  crack  of  the  whip  the  stage  rolled  away  with 
them.  It  lurched  on  its  leather  springs,  and  luffed 


THE   YARES   OF   THE  BLACK  MOUNTAINS      243 

and  righted  precisely  like  a  ship  in  a  chopping  sea, 
and  threw  them  forward  against  each  other  and  back 
into  dusty  depths  of  curled  hair,  until  even  the  baby 
laughed  aloud. 

Miss  Cook  took  out  her  notebook  and  pencil,  but 
found  it  impossible  to  write.  "  There  is  nothing  to 
make  note  of,  either,"  she  said  after  an  hour  or  two. 
"  It  is  the  loneliest  entrance  to  a  mountain-region  I 
ever  saw.  These  glassless  huts  we  see  now  and  then, 
the  ruins  of  cabins,  make  it  all  the  more  forlorn.  I 
saw  a  woman  ploughing  with  an  ox  just  now  on  the 
hillside,  where  it  was  so  steep  I  thought  woman, 
plough,  and  ox  would  roll  down  together.  — Is  there  no 
business,  no  stir  of  any  sort,  in  this  country?"  she 
called  sharply  to  the  driver,  who  looked  in  at  the 
window  at  that  minute. 

" I  don't  know,"  he  said  leisurely.  " Come  to  think 
on't,  it's  powerful  quiet  ginerally." 

" No  mining  —  mills?  " 

"  Thar  war  mica-mines.  But  ther  given  over.  An' 
thar  war  a  railroad.  But  that's  given  over  too.  I 
was  a-goin'  to  ask  you  ladies  ef  you'd  wish  to  git  out 
an'  see  whar  the  traveller  was  murdered  last  May,  up 
the  stream  a  bit.  I  kin  show  you  jest  whar  the  blood 
is  yet;  which,  they  do  say,  was  discovered  by  the  wild 
dogs  a-gnawin'  at  the  ground." 

The  baby's  mother  held  it  closer,  with  her  lips 
unusually  pale.  "Xo,  thank  you,"  she  said  cheer 
fully.  "Probably  we  can  see  it  as  we  come  back." 

"Well,  jest  as  you  please,"  he  replied,  gathering 
up  the  reins  with  a  discontented  air.  "  Thar's  been 
no  murder  in  the  mountings  for  five  years,  an'  'tisri't 
likely  there'll  be  another." 


244  SILHOUETTES   OF  AMERICAN  LIFE 

A  few  miles  farther  on  lie  stopped  to  water  his 
horses  at  a  hill-spring.  "  Thar's  a  house  yonder,  ef 
you  ladies  like  to  rest  an  hour/'  he  said,  nodding 
benignantly. 

"But  the  mail?  —  you  carry  the  mail?" 

"Oh,  the  mail  won't  trouble  itself,"  taking  out  Ids 
pipe  and  filling  it.  "That  thar  child  needs  rest,  I 
reckon." 

The  two  women  hurried  up  the  stony  field  to  the 
large  log  hut,  where  the  mistress  and  a  dozen  black- 
haired  children  stood  waiting  for  them. 

"Something  to  eat?"  cried  Miss  Cook.  "Yes,  in 
deed,  my  good  soul;  and  the  sooner  the  better. 
Finely-cut  face,  that,"  sketching  it  rapidly  while  the 
hostess  hurried  in  and  out.  "  Gallic.  These  moun 
taineers  were  all  originally  either  French  Huguenots 
or  Germans.  She  would  be  picturesque,  under  a  Nor 
man  peasant's  coif  and  red  umbrella,  but  in  a  dirty 
calico  wrapper  —  bah !  " 

The  house  also  was  dirty  and  bare,  but  the  table 
was  set  with  fried  chicken,  rice,  honey,  and  delicious 
butter. 

"And  how  —  how  much  are  we  to  pay  for  all  this?  " 
said  Miss  Cook  before  sitting  down. 

"If  ten  cents  each  would  not  be  too  much?"  hesi 
tated  the  woman. 

Miss  Cook  nodded :  her  very  portemonnaie  gave  a 
click  of  delight  in  her  pocket.  "  I  heard  that  these 
people  were  miserably  poor !  "  she  muttered  raptur 
ously.  "  Don't  look  so  shocked.  If  you  earned  your 
bread  by  your  brains,  as  I  do,  you'd  want  as  much 
bread  for  a  penny  as  possible." 


THE   TARES   OF  THE  BLACK  MOUNTAINS      245 

The  sky  began  to  darken  before  they  rose  from  the 
table,  and,  looking  out  through  the  cut  in  the  wall 
which  served  for  a  window,  they  saw  that  the  rain 
was  already  falling  heavily.  A  girl  of  sixteen,  who 
had  been  spinning  in  the  corner,  drew  her  wheel  in 
front  of  the  window:  the  square  of  light  threw  her 
delicately  lined  face  and  heavy  yellow  hair  into  relief. 
She  watched  the  baby  with  friendly  smiles  as  she 
spun,  giving  it  a  bit  of  white  wool  to  hold. 

"  What  a  queer  tribe  we  have  fallen  among!  "  said 
Miss  Cook  in  scarcely  lowered  tones.  "I  never  saw  a 
spinning-wheel  before,  except  Gretchen's  in  Faust, 
and  there  is  a  great  hand-loom.  Why,  it  was  only 
Tuesday  I  crossed  Desbrosses  Terry,  and  I  am  already 
two  centuries  back  from  New  York.  Very  incurious, 
too,  do  you  observe?  The  women  don't  even  glance 
at  the  shape  of  our  hats,  and  nobody  has  asked  us  a 
question  as  to  our  business  here.  People  who  live  in 
the  mountains  or  by  the  sea  generally  lack  the  vulgar 
curiosity  of  the  ordinary  country  farmer." 

"  Do  they?  I  did  not  know.  These  are  the  kindest 
people  /  ever  met,"  said  the  little  woman  in  black 
with  unwonted  emphasis. 

"  Oh,  they  expect  to  make  something  out  of  you. 
Travellers  are  the  rarest  of  game  in  this  region,  I 
imagine,"  observed  Miss  Cook  carelessly,  and  then 
stopped  abruptly  with  a  qualm  of  conscience,  remark 
ing  for  the  first  time  the  widow's  cap  which  her  com 
panion  wore.  These  people  had  perhaps  been  quicker 
than  she  in  guessing  the  story  of  the  little  woman  — 
that  the  child,  dying  as  it  seemed,  was  all  that  was 
left  to  her,  and  that  this  journey  to  the  balsam  moun 
tains  was  the  last  desperate  hope  for  its  life. 


246  SILHOUETTES  OF  AMERICAN  LIFE 

She  looked  with  a  fresh  interest  at  the  thin,  anxious 
face,  the  shabby  black  clothes,  and  then  out  of  the 
window  to  where  the  high  peaks  of  the  Black  Range 
were  dimly  visible  like  cones  of  sepia  on  the  gray 
horizon.  She  had  read  a  paper  in  some  magazine  on 
the  inhospitable  region  yonder,  walled  by  the  clouds. 
It  was  "  almost  unexplored,  although  so  near  the  sea 
board  cities  " ;  the  "  haunt  of  beasts  of  prey  " ;  the 
natives  were  "but  little  raised  above  the  condition  of 
Digger  Indians."  All  this  had  whetted  Miss  Cook's 
appetite.  She  was  tired  of  New  York  and  New 
Yorkers,  and  of  the  daily  grinding  them  up  into  news 
paper  correspondence  wherewith  to  earn  her  bread. 
To  become  an  explorer,  to  adventure  into  the  lairs  of 
bears  and  wolves,  at  so  cheap  a  cost  as  an  excursion 
ticket  over  the  Air-line  Railroad,  was  a  rare  chance 
for  her.  As  it  rained  now,  she  gathered  her  skirts 
up  from  the  dirty  floor  and  confided  some  of  these 
thoughts  to  her  companion,  who  only  said  absently, 
"She  did  not  know.  Doctor  Beasly  —  perhaps  Miss 
Cook  had  heard  of  Doctor  Beasly?  —  had  said  Char 
ley  must  have  mountain  air,  and  that  the  balsams 
were  tonics  in  themselves.  She  did  not  suppose  the 
Diggers  or  animals  would  hurt  her." 

The  truth  was,  the  little  woman  had  been  fighting 
Death  long  and  vainly  over  a  sick-bed.  She  knew 
his  terrors  there  well  enough:  she  had  learned  to 
follow  his  creeping,  remorseless  fingers  on  clammy 
skin  and  wasted  body,  and  to  hear  his  coming  foot 
steps  in  the  flagging  beats  of  a  pulse.  She  had  that 
dry,  sapless,  submissive  look  which  a  woman  gains 
in  long  nursing  —  a  woman  that  nurses  a  patient 


THE   TARES   OF  THE  BLACK  MOUNTAINS      247 

who  holds  part  of  her  own  life  and  is  carrying  it  with 
him,  step  by  step,  into  the  grave.  The  grave  had 
closed  over  this  woman's  dead,  and  all  that  lie  had 
taken  with  him  from  her:  even  to  herself  she  did  not 
dare  to  speak  of  him  as  yet.  The  puny  little  boy  in 
her  arms  was  the  only  real  thing  in  life  to  her.  There 
was  a  chance  in  these  mountains  of  keeping  him  —  a 
bare  chance.  As  for  wild  beasts  or  wild  people,  she 
had  thought  of  them  no  more  than  the  shadows  on  the 
road  which  passed  Avith  every  wind. 

The  rain  beat  more  heavily  on  the  roof :  the  driver 
presented  himself  at  the  door,  dripping.  "Ef  we 
don't  go  on,  night' 11  catch  us  before  we  make  Alex 
ander's,"  he  said.  "Give  me  that  little  feller  under 
my  coat.  I'll  kerry  him  to  the  stage." 

Miss  Cook  shivered  in  the  chilly  wind  that  rushed 
through  the  open  door.  "  Who  would  believe  that  the 
streets  in  New  York  were  broiling  at  105°  this  min 
ute?" 

"That  baby's  not  wrapped  warm  enough  for  a  night 
like  this,"  said  the  woman  of  the  house,  and  forthwith 
dragged  out  of  a  wooden  box  a  red  flannel  petticoat, 
ragged  but  clean,  and  pinned  it  snugly  about  him. 

"  She'll  charge  you  a  pretty  price  for  it,"  whispered 
Miss  Cook;  "and  it's  only  a  rag." 

"No,  no,"  laughed  the  woman,  when  the  widow 
drew  out  her  portemonnaie.  "Joe  kin  bring  it  back 
some  day.  That's  all  right." 

"You  seem  as  touched  by  that  as  though  it  were 
some  great  sacrifice,"  said  Miss  Cook  tartly  after  they 
were  settled  again  in  the  stage. 

"It  was  all  she  had."     Adding  after  a  pause,  "I 


248  SILHOUETTES  OF  AMERICAN  LIFE 

have  been  living  in  New  York  for  five  years.  My 
baby  was  born  there,  and  —  and  I  had  trouble.  But 
we  came  strangers,  and  were  always  strangers.  I 
knew  nobody  but  the  doctor.  I  came  to  look  upon 
the  milkman  and  baker  who  stopped  at  the  door  as 
friends.  People  are  in  such  a  hurry  there.  They 
have  no  time  to  be  friendly.'7 

The  stage  tossed  and  jolted,  the  rain  peltod  against 
the  windows.  Miss  Cook  snored  and  wakened  with 
jumps,  and  the  baby  slept  tranquilly.  There  was  a 
certain  purity  in  the  cold  damp  air  that  eased  his 
breathing,  and  the  red  petticoat  was  snug  and  warm. 
The  touch  of  it  seemed  to  warm  his  mother  too.  The 
kind  little  act  of  giving  it  was  something  new  to  her. 
It  seemed  as  if  in  the  North  she  too  had  been  in  a 
driving  hurry  of  work  since  her  birth,  and  had  never 
had  time  to  be  friendly.  If  life  here  was  barbarous, 
it  was  at  ease,  unmoving,  kindly.  She  could  take 
time  to  breathe. 

It  was  late  in  the  night  when  the  stage  began  to 
rattle  over  the  cobble-stoned  streets  of  the  little 
hill-village  of  Asheville.  It  drew  up  in  front  of  an 
inn  with  wooden  porches  sheltered  by  great  trees: 
there  were  lights  burning  inside,  and  glimpses  of  sup 
per  waiting,  and  a  steam  of  frying  chicken  and  coffee 
pervading  the  storm.  One  or  two  men  hurried  out 
from  the  office  with  umbrellas,  and  a  pretty  white- 
aproned  young  girl  welcomed  them  at  the  door. 

"Supper  is  ready,"  she  said.  "Yours  shall  be  sent 
to  your  room,  madam.  We  have  had  a  fire  kindled 
there  on  account  of  the  baby." 

"Why,  how  could  you  know  Charley  was  coming?" 
cried  the  widow  breathlessly. 


THE   TARES  OF  THE  BLACK  MOUNTAINS      249 

"  Oh,  a  week  ago,  madam.  While  you  stopped  at 
Morganton.  The  conductor  of  the  Salisbury  train 
sent  on  a  note,  and  afterward  the  clergyman  at  Lin- 
ville.  We  have  been  warned  to  take  good  care  of 
you,"  smiling  brightly. 

The  baby's  mother  said  nothing  until  she  was  seated 
in  her  room  before  a  wood-fire  which  crackled  and 
blazed  cheerfully.  The  baby  lay  on  her  lap,  its  face 
red  with  heat  and  comfort. 

"  Since  I  left  Richmond  one  conductor  has  passed 
me  on  to  another,"  she  said  solemnly  to  Miss  Cook. 
"The  baby  was  ill  at  Linville,  and  the  train  was 
stopped  for  an  hour,  and  the  ladies  of  the  village  came 
to  help  me.  And  now  these  people.  It  is  just  as 
though  I  were  coming  among  old  friends." 

"Pshaw!  They  think  you  have  money.  These 
Southerners  are  impoverished  by  the  war,  and  they 
have  an  idea  that  every  Northern  traveller  is  over 
loaded  with  wealth,  and  is  fair  game." 

"The  war?  I  had  forgotten  that.  One  would  for 
give  them  if  they  were  churlish  and  bitter." 

The  woman  was  a  weak  creature  evidently,  and 
inclined  to  drivel.  Miss  Cook  went  off  to  bed,  first 
jotting  down  in  her  notebook  some  of  the  young  girl's 
queer  mistakes  in  accent,  and  a  joke  on  her  yellow 
dress  and  red  ribbons.  They  would  be  useful  here 
after  in  summing  up  her  estimate  of  the  people.  The 
girl  and  the  widow  meantime  had  grown  into  good 
friends  in  undressing  the  boy  together.  When  his 
mother  lay  down  at  last  beside  him  the  firelight  threw 
a  bright  glow  over  the  bed,  and  the  pretty  young  face 
came  again  to  the  door  to  nod  good-night. 


250  SILHOUETTES  OF  AMERICAN  LIFE 

It  was  only  an  inn,  and  outside  a  strange  country 
and  strange  people  surrounded  her.  But  she  could 
not  rid  herself  of  the  impression  that  she  had  come 
home  to  her  own  friends. 

The  sun  rose  in  a  blue  dappled  sky,  but  before  he 
was  fairly  above  the  bank  of  wet  clouds  Miss  Cook 
was  out,  notebook  in  hand.  She  had  sketched  the 
outline  of  the  mountains  that  walled  in  the  table-land 
on  which  the  village  stood;  had  felt  the  tears  rise  to 
her  eyes  as  the  purple  shadow  about  Mount  Pisgah 
flamed  into  sudden  splendor  (for  her  tears  and  emo 
tions  responded  quickly  to  a  beautiful  sight  or  sound) ; 
she  had  discovered  the  grassy  public  square  in  which 
a  cow  grazed  and  a  woman  was  leisurely  driving  a 
steer  that  drew  a  cart ;  she  had  visited  four  empori 
ums  of  trade  —  little  low-ceiled  rooms  which  fronted 
on  the  square,  walled  with  calicoes  and  barrels  of 
sugar,  and  hung  overhead  with  brown  crockery  and 
tin  cups;  she  had  helped  two  mountaineers  trade 
their  bag  of  flour  for  shoes;  had  talked  to  the  negro 
women  milking  in  the  sheds,  to  the  gallant  Confeder 
ate  colonel  hoeing  his  corn  in  a  field,  to  a  hunter 
bringing  in  a  lot  of  peltry  from  the  Smoky  Range. 
As  they  talked  she  portioned  out  the  facts  as  material 
for  a  letter  in  the  Herald.  The  quaint  decaying 
houses,  the  swarming  blacks,  the  whole  drowsy  life  of 
the  village  set  high  in  the  chilled  sunshine  and  bound 
by  its  glittering  belt  of  rivers  and  rampart  of  misty 
mountain -heights,  were  sketched  in  a  sharp,  effective 
bit  of  word-painting  in  her  mind. 

She  trotted  back  to  the  Eagle  Hotel  to  put  it  on 
paper;  then  to  breakfast;  then  off  again  to  look  up 
schools,  churches,  and  editors. 


THE   TARES   OF   THE   BLACK  MOUNTAINS      251 

Late  in  the  afternoon,  tramping  along  a  steep  hill- 
path,  she  caught  sight  of  two  women  in  a  skiff  on  a 
lonely  stream  below.  It  was  the  baby's  mother  and 
the  pretty  girl  from  the  inn.  No  human  being  was  in 
sight;  the  low  sunlight  struck  luminous  bars  of  light 
between  the  trunks  of  the  hemlocks  into  the  water 
beneath  the  boat  as  it  swung  lazily  in  the  current; 
long  tangled  vines  of  sweetbrier  and  the  red  trumpet- 
creeper  hung  from  the  trees  into  the  water;  the  baby 
lay  sound  asleep  on  a  heap  of  shawls  at  his  mother's 
feet,  while  she  dipped  the  oars  gently  now  and  then 
to  keep  in  the  middle  of  the  stream. 

"  How  lazy  you  look !  "  called  Miss  Cook.  "  You 
might  have  been  made  out  of  the  earth  of  these  sleepy 
hills.  Here,  come  ashore.  D'ye  see  the  work  I've 
done?"  fluttering  a  sheaf  of  notes.  " I've  just  been 
at  the  jail.  A  den!  an  outrage  on  the  civilization  of 
the  nineteenth  century !  Men  have  been  branded  here 
since  the  Avar.  Criminals  in  this  State  are  actually 
secured  in  iron  cages  like  wild  beasts!  I  shall  use 
that  fact  effectively  in  my  book  on  the  '  Causes  of 
the  Decadence  of  the  South ' :  one  chapter  shall  be 
given  to  'The  Social  and  Moral  Condition  of  North 
Carolina. ' ' 

"  You  will  need  so  many  facts !  "  ejaculated  the  little 
woman,  awestruck,  yet  pityingly.  "It  will  take  all 
your  summer's  holiday  to  gather  them  up." 

Miss  Cook  laughed  with  cool  superiority:  "Why, 
child,  I  have  them  all  now  —  got  them  this  morning. 
Oh,  I  can  evolve  the  whole  state  of  society  from  half 
a  dozen  items.  I  have  the  faculty  of  generalizing, 
you  see.  No,"  folding  up  her  papers  decisively, 


252  SILHOUETTES   OF  AMERICAN  LIFE 

"I've  done  the  mountains  and  mountaineers.  Be 
tween  slavery  and  want  of  railroads,  humanity  has 
reached  its  extremest  conditions  here.  I  should  not 
learn  that  fact  any  better  if  I  stayed  a  week." 

"You  are  not  going  back?" 

"  Back?  Yes.  I  go  to  Georgia  to-morrow  morning. 
This  orange  I  have  sucked  dry." 

Miss  Cook  posted  to  the  inn  and  passed  the  night 
in  making  sketches  to  illustrate  her  article  from  a 
bundle  of  photographic  views  which  she  found  in 
possession  of  the  landlady. 

Looking  out  of  the  parlor-window  next  morning, 
she  saw  half  the  inmates  of  the  house  gathered  about 
an  ox-cart  in  which  sat  the  widow  and  Charley. 
A  couple  of  sacks  of  flour  lay  at  her  feet,  and  a 
middle-aged  man,  a  giant  as  to  height  and  build, 
dressed  in  butternut  homespun,  cracked  his  long  whip 
at  the  flies. 

"Where  can  she  be  going?"  asked  Miss  Cook  of  a 
young  woman  from  Georgia  whom  she  had  been  pump 
ing  dry  of  facts  all  the  morning.  The  Georgian  wore 
a  yellow  dress  with  a  coarse  frill  about  her  swarthy 
neck:  she  sat  at  the  piano  and  played  "Love's  Chid- 
ings." 

The  man,  she  said,  was  Jonathan  Yare,  a  hunter 
in  the  Black  Mountains.  Her  brother  had  told  her 
his  terrible  history.  Her  brother  had  once  penetrated 
into  the  mountains  as  far  as  the  hut  where  the  Yares 
lived,  some  thirty  miles  from  here.  Beyond  that 
there  were  no  human  beings :  the  mountains  were 
given  up  to  wild  beasts.  As  for  these  Yares,  they 
had  lived  in  the  wilderness  for  three  generations, 
and,  by  all  accounts,  like  the  beasts. 


THE    TARES   OF   THE  BLACK  MOUNTAINS      253 

Miss  Cook  rushed  out :  political  economist  though 
she  might  be,  she  had  a  gossip's  keen  enjoyment  in 
a  piece  of  bad  news.  "Do  you  know  these  Yares?" 
she  whispered.  "  They  have  a  terrible  history :  they 
live  like  wild  beasts." 

The  little  woman's  color  left  her.  Her  head  filled 
instantly  with  visions  of  the  Ku-Klux.  "I  never 
asked  what  they  were, "  she  gasped.  "  I  only  wanted 
to  take  Charley  among  the  balsams." 

The  man  looked  back  at  this  moment,  and  seeing 
that  the  valise  and  box  and  baby's  bottle  of  milk  were 
in  the  cart,  cracked  his  long  whip  over  the  near  ox, 
and  the  next  moment  the  widow  and  her  baby  were 
jolting  up  the  rocky  hill-street. 

She  felt  a  sudden  spasm  of  fear.  When  Death 
laid  his  hand  on  her  child  she  had  taken  him  up 
and  fled  to  these  mountains  without  a  second  thought, 
as  the  women  in  the  times  of  the  apostles  carried 
their  dead  and  dying  to  be  cured  by  miraculous  aid. 
But  she  was  a  woman  like  the  rest  of  us,  used  to  jog 
along  the  conventional  paths  to  church,  to  market, 
to  the  shops;  her  only  quarrels  with  the  departed 
David  had  been  about  his  unorthodox  habits  in 
business  and  politics;  and  she  never  could  be  easy 
until  she  was  sure  that  her  neighbors  liked  her  new 
bonnet.  What  would  her  neighbors  —  any  neighbor 
—  David  himself,  have  said  at  seeing  her  in  league 
with  this  desperate  character,  going  into  frightful 
solitudes? 

The  man  spoke  to  her  once  or  twice,  but  she 
answered  with  an  inaudible  little  chirp,  after  which 
he  fell  into  silence,  neither  whistling  nor  speaking 
to  his  oxen,  as  she  noticed. 


254  SILHOUETTES   OF  AMERICAN  LIFE 

She  could  not  help  observing  how  unusually  clear 
the  light  about  her  was  from  the  thinness  of  the  air, 
although  the  sun  was  out  of  sight  in  a  covered,  fore 
boding  sky,  and  black,  ragged  fragments  of  cloud  from 
some  approaching  thunderstorm  were  driven  now  and 
then  across  the  horizon.  The  road,  if  road  you  chose 
to  call  it,  crept  along  beside  the  little  crystal-clear 
Swannanoa  River,  and  persisted  in  staying  beside  it, 
sliding  over  hills  of  boulders,  fording  rushing  moun 
tain-streams  and  dank,  snaky  swamps,  digging  its  way 
along  the  side  of  sheer  precipices,  rather  than  desert 
its  companion.  The  baby's  mother  suddenly  became 
conscious  that  the  river  was  a  companion  to  whom 
she  had  been  talking  and  listening  for  an  hour  or  two. 
It  was  narrow,  deep,  and  clear  as  the  air  above  it :  it 
flowed  with  a  low,  soothing  sound  in  which  there  came 
to  her  somehow  an  assurance  of  security  and  good 
will. 

Multitudes  of  trailing  vines  hedged  in  the  river ;  they 
covered  the  banks,  and  threw  long,  clutching  branches 
into  the  water;  they  crept  out  on  projecting  trees  on 
either  side  and  leaped  across  the  stream,  ridging  it  with 
arches  of  wreaths  and  floating  tendrils.  There  were 
the  dark,  waving  plumes  of  the  American  ivy,  the  red 
cornucopias  of  the  trumpet-creeper,  morning-glories 
with  great  white  blossoms,  the  passion-flower  trailing 
its  mysterious  purple  emblems  through  the  mud  be 
neath  the  oxen's  feet, — all  creeping  or  turning  in 
some  way  toward  the  river. 

Surely  there  Avere  airy  affections,  subtle  friendli 
nesses,  among  these  dumb  living  creatures!  They 
all  seemed  alive  to  her,  though  she  was  a  prosaic 


THE   YARES   OF   THE  BLACK  MOUNTAINS      255 

woman,  who  had  read  little  beyond  her  cooked-book 
and  Bible.  It  was  as  though  she  had  come  unbidden 
into  Nature's  household  and  interrupted  the  inmates 
talking  together.  The  Carolina  rose  stretched  in 
masses  for  miles  along  the  road  —  the  very  earth 
seejned  to  blush  with  it :  here  and  there  a  late  rhodo 
dendron  hung  out  its  scarlet  banner.  The  tupelo 
thrust  its  white  fingers  out  of  the  shadow  like  a 
maiden's  hand,  and  threw  out  into  the  air  the  very 
fragrance  of  the  lilies-of-the-valley  which  used  to 
grow  in  the  garden  she  made  when  she  was  a  little 
girl.  The  silence  was  absolute,  except  when  a  pheas 
ant  rose  with  a  whirr  or  a  mocking-bird  sounded  its 
melancholy  defiant  call  in  the  depths  of  the  forest. 
Long  habit  of  grief  had  left  her  heart  tender  and  its 
senses  keen:  these  things,  which  were  but  game  or 
specimens  for  the  naturalist,  were  God's  creatures  to 
her,  and  came  close  to  her.  Charley  woke,  and  look 
ing  up  saw  her  smiling  down  on  him  with  warm  cheeks. 
She  did  not  know  the  name  of  a  plant  or  tree  or  bird, 
but  she  felt  the  friendliness  and  welcome  of  the  hills, 
just  as  she  used  to  be  comforted  and  lifted  nearer  to 
God  by  distant  church  music,  although  she  could  not 
hear  a  word  of  the  hymn. 

Leaving  the  road,  they  entered  deep  silent  gorges, 
and  followed  the  bed  of  mountain-streams  through 
canons  walled  in  by  gray  frowning  rocks,  over  which 
the  sky  bent  more  darkly  each  moment.  At  last  there 
was  a  break  in  the  gorge.  About  her  was  a  world  of 
gigantic  mountains.  There  was  no  sign  of  human 
habitation  —  nothing  but  interminable  forests  that 
climbed  the  heights,  and,  failing  half-way,  left  them 
bare  to  pierce  the  clouds. 


256  SILHOUETTES  OF  AMERICAN  LIFE 

She  had  started  on  this  journey  with  a  vague  notion 
of  reaching  some  higher  land  where  balsam  trees  grew, 
the  air  about  which  would  be  wholesome  for  Charley. 
She  had  penetrated  to  the  highest  summits  of  the 
Appalachian  Range,  the  nursery  or  breeding-place 
from  which  descend  the  Blue  Ridge,  the  Alleghanies, 
the  Nantahela  —  all  the  great  mountain-bulwarks  that 
wall  the  continent  on  its  eastern  coast.  The  mighty 
peaks  rose  into  the  sky  beyond  her  sight,  while  the 
gathering  storm-clouds  clung  to  their  sides,  surging* 
and  eddying  with  the  wind.  How  petty  and  short 
lived  was  wind  or  storm!  She  looked  up  at  the 
fixed,  awful  heights,  forgetting  even  the  child  on  her 
knee.  It  was  as  if  God  had  taken  her  into  one  of  the 
secret  places  where  He  dwelt  apart. 

She  came  to  herself  suddenly,  finding  that  the  cart 
had  stopped  and  the  driver  was  standing  beside  her 
examining  the  baby's  milk. 

"I  reckon,"  he  said,  "it's  sour,  and  the  little  chap's 
hungry.  I'll  get  some  fresh,  an'  you  kin  look  at  the 
mountings." 

He  went  into  the  laurel,  and  with  a  peculiar  whistle 
brought  some  of  the  wild  cattle  to  him,  and  proceeded 
to  milk  one  of  the  cows,  returning  with  a  cupful  of 
foaming  warm  milk.  Now,  one  of  the  Ku-Klux 
would  hardly  go  to  milking  cows,  she  thought;  and 
there  was  something  in  the  man's  steady  grave  eyes 
that  looked  as  if  he  too  understood  the  meaning  of  the 
"mountings."  They  jogged  on  in  silence. 

Half  an  hour  later  the  clouds  closed  about  them  and 
the  rain  fell  heavily.  The  cart  was  dragged  through 
the  bed  of  a  mountain-stream,  and  then  stopped  in 


THE   TARES   OF   THE  BLACK  MOUNTAINS      257 

front  of  a  low  log  house  built  into  a  ledge  of  the  moun 
tain.  A  room  on  either  side  opened  into  a  passage, 
through  which  a  wagon  might  be  driven,  and  where 
the  rain  and  wind  swept  unchecked.  An  old  woman 
stood  in  it  looking  up  the  stream.  Her  gray  hair 
hung  about  her  sallow  face,  her  dress  was  a  dirty 
calico,  her  feet  were  bare.  Behind  her  was  the 
kitchen,  a  large  forlorn  space  scarcely  enclosed  by  the 
log  and  mud  walls.  A  pig  ran  unnoticed  past  her 
into  it.  Another  woman,  tall  and  gaunt,  was  fording 
the  stream :  she  was  dripping  wet,  and  carried  a  spade. 
Surely,  thought  the  baby's  mother,  human  nature 
could  reach  no  lower  depths  of  squalor  and  ignorance 
than  these. 

"Mother,"  said  Jonathan  Yare,  "here  is  a  friend 
that  has  come  with  her  baby  to  stay  with  us  a  while." 

The  old  woman  turned  and  instantly  held  out  her 
arms  for  the  child.  "Come  in  —  come  to  the  fire," 
she  said  cordially.  "  I  am  glad  Jonathan  brought  you 
to  us." 

If  a  princess  had  been  so  taken  by  surprise,  her 
courtly  breeding  could  not  have  stood  her  in  better 
stead. 

She  took  the  baby  and  its  mother  into  a  snug 
boarded  room  with  half  a  dozen  pictures  from  the  illus 
trated  papers  on  the  walls,  and  a  fire  of  great  logs 
smouldering  on  the  hearth.  When  they  were  warmed 
and  dry  they  went  into  the  kitchen.  Supper  was 
ready,  and  two  or  three  six-foot  mountaineers  stood 
by  the  table. 

"  We  are  waiting  for  father, "  said  the  woman  who 
had  carried  the  spade.  Both  men  and  women  had 


258  SILHOUETTES  OF  AMERICAN  LIFE 

peculiar  low  voices.  One  could  never  grow  used  to 
hearing  such  gentle  tones  from  these  great  sons  of 
Anak.  At  the  same  moment  an  old  man  of  eighty, 
whose  gigantic  build  dwarfed  all  of  his  sons,  came 
into  the  doorway.  His  eyes  were  closed,  and  he 
groped  with  his  staff.  The  widow,  as  soon  as  she 
saw  his  face,  went  directly  up  to  him  and  took  his 
hand. 

"My  name  is  Denby,"  she  said.  "I  brought  my 
baby  here  to  be  cured.  He  is  all  I  have,  sir." 

"You  did  right  to  come."  She  guided  his  hand  to 
Charley's,  and  he  felt  his  skin,  muscles,  and  pulse, 
asking  questions  with  shrewder  insight  than  any 
physician  had  done.  Then  he  led  her  to  the  table. 
"Boys,  Mistress  Denby  will  like  to  sit  beside  me,  I 
think,"  he  said. 

She  had  an  odd  feeling  that  she  had  been  adopted 
by  some  ancient  knight,  although  the  old  man  beside 
her  wore  patched  trousers  that  left  his  hairy  ankles 
and  feet  bare.  Before  the  meal  was  over  another 
strange  impression  deepened  on  her.  She  saw  that 
these  people  were  clothed  and  fed  as  the  very  poorest 
poor;  she  doubted  whether  one  of  them  could  read 
or  write ;  they  talked  little,  and  only  of  the  corn,  or 
the  ox  that  had  gone  lame ;  but  she  could  not  rid  her 
self  of  the  conviction  that  she  had  now,  as  never  in 
her  life,  come  into  the  best  of  good  company.  Nature 
does  not  always  ennoble  her  familiars.  Country- 
people  usually  are  just  as  uneasy  and  vulgar  in  their 
cheap  and  ignorant  efforts  at  display  or  fashion  as 
townsmen.  But  these  mountaineers  were  absolutely 
unconscious  that  such  things  were.  A  man  was  a 


THE   YARES   OF  THE  BLACK  MOUNTAINS      259 

man  to  them  —  a  woman,  a  woman.  They  had  never 
perhaps  heard  either  estimated  by  their  money  or 
house  or  clothes.  The  Yares  were,  in  fact,  a  family 
born  with  exceptionally  strong  intellects  and  clean, 
fine  instincts :  they  had  been  left  to  develop  both  in 
utter  solitude;  and  the  result  was  the  grave  self- 
control  of  Indians  and  a  truthful  directness  of 
thought  and  speech  which  grew  out  of  the  great  calm 
^Nature  about  them  as  did  the  trees  and  the  flowing 
water. 

These  were  the  first  human  beings  whom  the  widow 
had  ever  met  between  whom  and  herself  there  came 
absolutely  no  bar  of  accident  —  no  circumstance  of 
social  position  or  clothes  or  education:  they  were  the 
first  who  could  go  straight  to  something  in  her  beneath 
all  these  things.  She  soon  forgot  (what  they  had 
never  known)  how  poor  they  were  in  all  these  acci 
dents. 

Charley  and  his  mother  were  at  once  adopted  into 
the  family.  At  night,  when  the  child  was  asleep, 
the  old  hunter  always  sat  with  her  and  his  wife  beside 
the  fire,  telling  stories  of  bear-hunts,  of  fights  with 
panthers,  of  the  mysterious  Kattlesnake  Valley,  near 
which  no  hunter  ventures.  He  had  been  born  in  this 
house,  and  passed  the  whole  of  his  eighty  years  in  the 
mountains  of  the  Black  Range.  One  night,  noticing 
the  scars  which  his  encounters  with  bears  had  left  on 
him,  she  said,  "It  is  no  wonder  that  the  townspeople 
in  Asheville  talked  to  me  of  the  'terrible  history  of 
the  Yares.'" 

The  old  man  smiled  quietly,  but  did  not  answer. 
When  he  had  gone  to  bed  his  wife  said  with  great 


260  SILHOUETTES  OF  AMERICAN  LIFE 

feeling,  "  It  was  not  their  fights  with  wolves  and  bears 
that  turned  the  people  of  Aslieville  agen.  the  name  of 
my  boys  and  their  father,  They  were  the  ony  men 
anigh  hyar  that  stood  out  fur  the  Union  from  first  to 
last.  They  couldn't  turn  agen  the  old  flag,  you  see, 
Mistress  Denby." 

"  They  should  have  gone  into  the  Federal  army  and 
helped  to  free  the  slaves,"  cried  the  widow  with  rising 
color,  for  she  had  been  a  violent  abolitionist  in  her 
day. 

"Waal,  we  never  put  much  vally  on  the  blacks, 
that's  the  truth.  We  couldn't  argy  or  jedge  whether 
slavery  war  wholesomest  or  not.  It  was  out  of  our 
sight.  My  lads,  bein'  known  as  extraordinar'  strong 
men  an'  powerful  bear-fighters,  hed  two  or  three  offers 
to  join  Kirk's  Loyal  Rangers  in  Tennessee.  But  they 
couldn't  shed  the  blood  of  their  old  neighbors." 

"Then  they  fought  on  neither  side?  Their  old 
neighbors  most  probably  called  them  cowards." 

"Nobody  would  say  that  of  the  Yares,"  the  woman 
said  simply.  "But  when  they  wouldn't  go  into  the 
Confederit  army,  they  was  driv  out  —  four  of  them, 
Jonathan  first  —  from  under  this  roof,  an'  for  five 
years  they  lay  out  on  the  mountings.  It  began  this 
a-way:  Some  of  the  Union  troops,  they  came  up  to 
the  Unaka  Range,  and  found  the  house  whar  the 
Grangers  lived  —  hunters  like  us.  The  soldiers  fol 
lowed  the  two  Granger  lads  who  was  in  the  rebel  army, 
an'  had  slipped  home  on  furlough  to  see  their  mother. 
Waal,  they  shot  the  lads,  catchin'  them  out  in  the 
barnyard,  which  was  to  be  expected,  p'raps;  an'  when 
their  ole  father  came  runnin'  out  they  killed  him  too. 


THE    TARES   OF  THE  BLACK  MOUNTAINS      261 

His  wife,  seem'  that,  hid  the  baby  (as  they  called  him, 
though  he  was  nigh  onto  eight  year  old)  under  a  loose 
board  of  the  floor.  But  he,  gettin'  scart,  runs  out  and 
calls,  'Gentlemen,  I  surrender/  jest  like  a  man.  He 
fell  with  nine  bullets  in  his  breast.  His  mother  sees 
it  all.  There  never  was  a  woman  so  interrupted  as 
that  pore  woman  that  day.  She  comes  up  to  us, 
travellin'  night  an'  day,  talkin'  continual  under  her 
breath  of  the  lads  and  her  ole  man's  gray  hair  lyin'  in 
a  pool  of  blood.  She's  never  lied  her  right  mind  sence. 
When  Jonathan  heard  that  from  her,  he  said,  'Mother, 
not  even  for  the  Union  will  I  join  in  sech  work  as  this 
agen  my  friends.'  He  knowed  ony  the  few  folks  on 
the  mountings,  but  he  keered  for  them  as  if  they  war 
his  brothers.  Yet  they  turned  agen  him  at  the 
warn  in'  of  a  day,  and  hunted  him  as  if  he  was  a  wild 
beast.  He's  forgot  that  now.  But  his  sister,  she's 
never  forgot  it  for  him  agen  them.  Jonathan's  trouble 
made  a  different  woman  of  Nancy." 

But  Mrs.  Denby  felt  but  little  interest  in  the 
gaunt,  silent  Nancy. 

"  You  say  they  hunted  your  sons  through  the  moun 
tains?" 

"  Jest  as  if  they  war  wolves.  But  the  boys  knowed 
the  mountings.  Thars  hundreds  of  caves  and  gullies 
thar  whar  no  man  ever  ventered  but  them.  Three 
times  a  week  Nancy  went  —  she  war  a  young  girl  then : 
she  went  up  into  Old  Craggy  and  the  Black  miles  and 
miles  to  app'inted  places  to  kerry  pervisions.  I've 
seen  her  git  out  of  her  bed  to  go  (fur  she  lied  her 
aches  and  pains  like  other  wimmen),  and  take  that 
pack  on  her  back,  when  the  gorges  war  sheeted  with 


262  SILHOUETTES   OF  AMERICAN  LIFE 

snow  and  ice,  an'  ef  she  missed  her  footin'  no  man 
on  arth  could  know  whar  she  died." 

"  But  five  years  of  idleness  for  your  sons  —  " 

The  old  woman's  high  features  flushed.  "You 
don't  understan7,  Mistress  Denby,"  she  said  calmly. 
"My  sons'  work  in  them  years  was  to  pertect  an' 
guide  the  rebel  deserters  home  through  the  mountings 
—  people  at  the  North  don't  know,  likely,  what 
crowds  of  them  thar  war  —  an'  to  bring  the  Union 
prisoners  escaped  from  Salisbury  and  Andersonville 
safe  to  the  Federal  lines  in  Tennessee.  One  of  the 
boys  would  be  to  Salisbury  in  disguise,  an'  the  others 
would  take  them  from  him  and  run  them  into  the 
mountings,  an'  keep  'em  thar,  bringin'  them  hyar 
when  they  could  at  night  fur  a  meal's  good  victuals. 
About  midnight  they  used  to  come.  Nancy  an'  me, 
we'd  hear  a  stone  flung  into  the  river  yonder  —  seemed 
es  ef  I'd  never  stop  listenin'  fur  that  stone  —  an' 
we'd  find  them  pore  starved  critters  standin'  in  the 
dark  outside  with  Jonathan.  In  ten  minutes  we'd 
have  supper  ready  —  keepin'  the  fire  up  every  night 
—  an'  they'd  eat  an'  sleep,  an'  be  off  before  dawn. 
Hundreds  of  them  hev  slep'  in  this  very  room,  sayin' 
it  was  as  ef  they'd  come  back  to  their  homes  out  of 
hell.  They  looked  as  ef  they'd  been  thar,  raally." 

"In  this  room?"  Mrs.  Denby  stood  up  trembling. 
Her  husband  had  been  in  Salisbury  at  the  same  time 
as  Albert  Richardson,  and  had  escaped.  He  might 
have  slept  in  this  very  bed  where  his  child  lay. 
These  people  might  have  saved  him  from  death.  But 
Mrs.  Yare  did  not  notice  her  agitation. 

"  Thar  was  one  winter  when  Major  Gee  sent  guards 


THE    TARES    OF   THE  BLACK  MOUNTAINS      263 

from  Salisbury  to  watch  the  mounting-passes,  'spe 
cially  about  this  house,  knowin'  my  boys'  work. 
Then  they  couldn't  come  anigh:  thar  was  nigh  a  year 
I  couldn't  hear  from  them  ef  they  were  alive  or  dead. 
I'd  hear  shots,  an'  the  guards  'ud  tell  me  it  Avas 
'another  damned  refugee  gone ' -  —  p'raps  one  of  my 
boys.  I'd  set  by  that  door  all  night,  lookin7  up  to 
the  clouds  coverin'  the  mounting,  wonderin'  ef  my 
lads  was  safe  an'  well  up  thar  or  lyin'  dead  an' 
unburied.  I'd  think  ef  I  could  ony  see  one  of  my 
lads  for  jest  once  —  jest  once !  "  The  firelight  flashed 
up  over  her  tall,  erect  figure.  She  was  standing,  and 
held  her  arm  over  her  bony  breast  as  if  the  old  pain 
was  intolerable  even  now. 

She  said  quietly  after  a  while,  "But  I  didn't 
begrudge  them  to  their  work.  One  night  —  the 
soldiers  were  jest  yonder:  you  could  see  the  camp- 
fire  in  the  fog  —  thar  Avar  the  stone  knockin'  in 
the  stream.  I  says,  'Xancy,  which  is  it?7  She 
says,  'It's  Charley's  throw.  Someut  ails  Jonathan.' 
An'  Charley  hed  come  to  say  his  brother  war  dyin' 
in  a  cave  two  mile  up:  they'd  kerried  him  thar.  I 
found  my  lad  thar,  worn  to  a  shadder,  an'  with  some 
disease  no  yerbs  could  tech.  Wall,  fur  a  week  we 
came  an'  went  to  him,  past  the  guard  who  Avar  sent  to 
shoot  him  doAvn  Avhen  found  like  a  dog;  an'  thar  he 
Avas  lyin'  within  call,  an3  the  snoAV  an'  sleet  drift  in' 
about  him.  One  day  Xancy  Avas  dumb  all  day — not 
a  word.  I  said  to  father,  'Let  her  alone:  she's 
a-studyin'  powerful.  Let  her  alone.'  'Mother, J  she 
says  at  night,  'I've  been  thinkin'  about  Jonathan. 
He  must  hev  a  house  to  cover  him,  or  he'll  die.' 


264  SILHOUETTES   OF  AMERICAN  LIFE 

'Yes,  Nancy,  but  what  house?  '  'I'll  show  you,'  says 
she.  'You  bide  hyar  quiet  with  father.  The  guard 
is  used  to  seein'  me  come  an'  go  with  the  cattle.'  She 
took  an  axe  an'  went  out,  an'  didn't  come  home  till 
mornin'.  In  three  days  she  hed  cut  down  logs  an' 
built  a  hut,  six  feet  by  ten,  among  the  laurels  yonder, 
haulm'  an'  liftiii'  them  logs  herself,  an'  floored  it,  an' 
kivered  it  with  brush,  an'  brought  him  to  it;  an'  thar 
she  stayed  an'  nursed  him.  The  snow  fell  heavy  an' 
hid  it.  Yes,  it  seems  onpossible  for  a  woman.  But 
not  many's  got  my  Nancy's  build,"  proudly.  "One 
day,  when  Jonathan  was  growin'  better,  Colonel  Bar 
ker  rode  up:  he  war  a  Confederit.  '  Mrs.  Yare,'  says 
he,  'thar's  word  come  your  boys  hev  been  seen  hyar- 
bouts,  an'  the  home  guard's  on  its  way  up.'  An' 
then  he  tuk  to  talkin'  cattle  an.'  the  like  with  father, 
an'  turned  his  back  on  me.  An'  I  went  out  an'  give 
the  signal.  An'  in  ten  minutes  Nancy  came  in  with 
the  milk-pail  as  the  guard  rode  up.  I  knowed  the 
boys  war  safe.  Waal,  they  sarched  the  laurel  for 
hours,  an'  late  in  the  afternoon  they  came  in.  'Colo 
nel,'  says  they,  'look  a-here!  '  So  we  went  out,  an' 
thar  war  the  house.  'Who  built  this? '  says  he.  'I 
did, '  says  Nancy,  thinkin'  the  ownin'  to  it  was  death. 
The  tears  stood  in  his  eyes.  'G-od  help  us  all! '  says 
he.  'Men,  don't  touch  a  log  of  it.'  But  they  tore  it 
to  the  ground  when  he  was  gone,  an'  took  Nancy  down 
to  Asheville,  an'  kep  her  in  the  jail  thar  for  a  month, 
threatenin'  to  send  her  to  Salisbury  ef  she'd  not  tell 
whar  the  boys  war.  They  might  hev  hung  her:  of 
course  she'd  not  hev  told.  But  it  wore  her  —  it  wore 
her.  She'd  be  a  prettier  girl  now,"  thoughtfully, 


THE   YARES   OF  THE  BLACK  MOUNTAINS      265 

"ony  for  what  she's  gone  through  for  her  brothers. 
Then  they  arrested  father  an'  took  him  to  Richmond, 
to  Libby  Prison.  As  soon  as  ISTancy  heard  that,  she 
sent  for  the  commandant  of  the  post. 

" '  Give  me,'  she  says,  'a  written  agreement  that  my 
father  shall  be  released  when  his  four  sons  come  into 
Richmond,  and  let  me  go. '  So  they  did  it. " 

"And  the  boys  went?" 

"Of  course.  They  reported  themselves  at  Ashe- 
ville,  hopin'  that  would  release  their  father  sooner. 
But  they  hed  to  be  forwarded  to  Salisbury,  an'  held 
thar  until  he  was  brought  on." 

"They  were  in  that  prison,  there?" 

"  Yes.  But  they  was  well  treated,  bein'  wanted  for 
soldiers.  It  was  in  the  last  year,  when  the  men  war 
desertin'  and  the  drafts  war  of  no  use.  On  the  fourth 
day  the  lads  war  brought  into  the  guard-house  before 
the  officers. 

"'Mr.  Yare, '  says  the  major  very  pleasantly,  'I 
believe  you  an'  yor  brothers  are  reputed  to  be  onusu- 
ally  daring  men. ' 

"'That  I  don't  know,'  says  Jonathan. 

"'You  hev  certainly  mistaken  the  object  of  the  war 
and  your  duty.  At  any  rate,  you  hev  incurred  ten 
times  more  risk  an'  danger  in  fighting  for  refugees 
than  you  would  have  done  in  the  army.  We  have 
determined  to  overlook  all  the  offences  of  your  family, 
and  to  permit  you  to  bear  arms  in  our  service.' 

'"I  will  never  bear  arms  in  the  Confederit  service,' 
says  Jonathan  quietly.  You  know  he's  a  quiet  man, 
an'  slow. 

"  A  little  man,  a  young  captain,  standing  by,  says 


266  SILHOUETTES  OF  AMERICAN  LIFE 

in  a  heat,  'Bah!  Why  do  you  waste  words  with  such 
fellows?  The  best  use  to  make  of  the  whole  lot  is  to 
order  them  out  to  be  shot. ' 

"'I  agree  with  you,  Mac,'  says  the  colonel.  'It's 
poor  policy,  at  this  stage  of  the  game,  to  tax  the  com 
missariat  and  put  arms  into  the  hands  of  unwilling 
soldiers.  —  But '  —  then  he  stopped  for  a  minute  — • 
'you  have  no  right  to  answer  for  your  brothers,  Yare, ' 
he  said.  'I  give  you  half  an  hour,'  taking  out  his 
watch.  'You  can  consult  together.  Such  of  you  as 
are  willing  to  go  into  the  ranks  can  do  so  at  once :  the 
others  —  shall  be  dealt  with  as  Captain  Mclntyre  sug 
gests.' 

"They  took  the  lads  back  into  the  inside  room. 
When  the  half  hour  was  up,  all  but  five  minutes,  they 
saw  a  company  drawn  up  in  a  hollow  square  outside. 
They  were  led  out  thar,  facin'  them,  an'  thar  war  the 
officers.  It  was  a  sunshiny,  clar  day,  an'  Jonathan 
said  he  couldn't  help  but  think  of  the  mountings  an' 
his  father  an'  me. 

"Charley,  he  spoke  first.  'Jonathan  is  the  oldest,' 
he  says.  'He  will  answer  for  us  all.' 

'"You  will  go  into  the  service? '  says  the  major. 

"'No,'  said  Jonathan,  'we  never  will.' 

"  The  major  made  a  sign.  My  lads  walked  down 
and  the  soldiers  took  aim,  deliberate.  The  major 
was  lookin'  curiously  at  Jonathan. 

" '  This  is  not  cowardice,'  said  he.  '  Why  will  you 
not  go  into  the  ranks?  I  believe,  in  my  soul,  you 
are  a  Union  man!  ' 

"  Jonathan  says  he  looked  quick  at  the  guns  levelled 
at  him,  and  couldn't  keep  his  breath  from  comin' 
hard. 


THE   TARES   OF   THE  BLACK  MOUNTAINS      267 

"'Yes,'  he  says  out  loud.  'By  God,  I  am  a  Union 
man !  ' 

"  Captain  Mcliityre  pushed  his  sword  down  with  a 
clatter  and  turned  away.  'I  never  saw  pluck  like  that 
before,'  he  said. 

"'Corporal,'  said  the  major,  'take  these  men  back 
to  jail.' 

"Two  weeks  after  that  Lee  surrendered,  an7  my 
lads  came  home." 


The  women  talked  often  in  this  way.  Mrs.  Denby 
urged  them  again  and  again  to  come  out  of  their  soli 
tude  to  the  Xorth.  "  There  are  hundreds  of  men 
there,"  she  said,  "of  influence  and  distinction  whose 
lives  your  sons  have  saved  at  the  peril  of  their  own. 
Here  they  will  always  pass  their  days  in  hard  drudg 
ery  and  surrounded  by  danger." 

The  mother  shook  her  head,  but  it  was  Nancy  who 
answered  in  her  gentle,  pathetic  voice:  "The  Yares 
hev  lived  on  the  Old  Black  for  four  generations,  Mis 
tress  Denby.  It  wouldn't  do  to  kerry  us  down  into 
towns.  It  must  be  powerful  lonesome  in  them  flat 
countries,  with  nothing  but  people  about  you.  The 
mountings  is  always  company,  you  see." 

The  little  townswoman  tried  to  picture  to  herself 
these  mountaineers  actually  in  the  houses  of  the  men 
whom  they  had  rescued  from  death  —  these  slow- 
speaking  giants  clad  in  cheap  Bowery  clothes,  igno 
rant  of  art,  music,  books,  bric-a-brac,  politics.  She 
understood  that  they  would  be  lonesome,  and  that 


268  SILHOUETTES  OF  AMERICAN  LIFE 

the   mountains    and    they   were    company   for    each 
other. 

She  lived  in  their  hut  all  summer.  Her  baby  grew 
strong  and  rosy,  and  the  mountains  gave  to  her  also 
of  their  good-will  and  comfort. 


MARCIA 


OKE  winter  morning  a  few  years  ago  the  mail 
brought  me  a  roll  of  MS.  (with  one  stamp  too 
many,  as  if  to  bribe  the  post  to  care  for  so  precious  a 
thing)  and  a  letter.  Every  publisher,  editor,  or  even 
the  obscurest  of  writers  receives  such  packages  so 
often  as  to  know  them  at  a  glance.  Half  a  dozen 
poems  or  a  story  —  a  blur  of  sunsets,  duchesses, 
violets,  bad  French,  and  worse  English;  not  a  solid 
grain  of  common-sense,  not  a  hint  of  reality  or  even 
of  possibility,  in  the  whole  of  it.  The  letter  —  truth 
in  every  word :  formal,  hard,  practical,  and  the  mean 
ing  of  it  a  woman's  cry  for  bread  for  her  hungry 
children. 

Each  woman  who  writes  such  a  letter  fancies  that 
she  is  the  first,  that  its  pathos  will  move  hard-hearted 
editors,  and  that  the  extent  of  her  need  will  supply 
the  lack  of  wit,  wisdom,  or  even  grammar  in  her 
verses  or  story.  Such  appeals  pour  in  literally  by  the 
thousand  every  year  to  every  publishing  office.  The 
sickly  daughter  of  a  poor  family;  the  wife  of  a 
drunken  husband;  a  widow;  children  that  must  be 
fed  and  clothed.  What  is  the  critic's  honest  opinion 

269 


270  SILHOUETTES   OF  AMERICAN  LIFE 

of  her  work?  how  much  will  it  bring  in  dollars  and 
cents?  etc.,  etc. 

I  did  not  open  the  letter  that  day.  When  we  reach 
middle  age  we  have  learned,  through  rough  experi 
ences,  how  many  tragedies  there  are  in  our  street  or 
under  our  own  roof  which  will  be  none  the  better  for 
our  handling,  and  are  apt,  selfishly,  to  try  to  escape 
the  hearing  of  them. 

This  letter,  however,  when  I  opened  it  next  morn 
ing,  proved  to  be  not  of  a  tragical  sort.  The  writer 
was  "not  dependent  on  her  pen  for  support";  she 
"  had  vowed  herself  to  literature  " ;  she  was  "  resolved 
to  assist  in  the  Progress  of  humanity."  Scarcely  had 
I  laid  down  the  letter  when  I  was  told  that  she  waited 
below  to  see  me.  The  card  she  sent  up  was  a  bit  of 
the  fly-leaf  of  a  book,  cut  oblong  with  scissors,  and 
the  name — Miss  Barr  —  written  in  imitation  of  engrav 
ing.  Her  back  was  toward  me  when  I  came  down, 
and  I  had  time  to  read  the  same  sham  stylishness 
written  all  over  her  thin  little  person.  The  sleazy 
black  silk  was  looped  in  the  prevailing  fashion,  a 
sweeping  white  plume  drooped  from  the  cheap  hat, 
and  on  her  hands  were  washed  cotton  gloves. 

Instead  of  the  wizened  features  of  the  "  dead  beat " 
which  I  expected,  she  turned  on  me  a  child's  face :  an 
ugly  face,  I  believe  other  women  called  it,  but  one 
of  the  most  innocent  and  honest  in  the  world.  Her 
brown  eyes  met  mine  eagerly,  full  of  a  joyous  good- 
fellowship  for  everything  and  everybody  alive.  She 
poured  out  her  story,  too,  in  a  light-hearted  way,  and 
in  the  lowest,  friendliest  of  voices.  To  see  the  girl 
was  to  be  her  ally.  "  People  will  do  anything  for  me 
• — but  publish  my  manuscripts,"  she  said. 


MA  EC  I  A  271 

She  came  from  Mississippi;  had  been  the  only  white 
child  on  a  poor  plantation  on  the  banks  of  the  Yazoo. 
"  I  have  only  had  such  teaching  as  my  mother  could 
give :  she  had  but  two  years  with  a  governess.  We 
had  no  books  nor  newspapers,  except  an  occasional 
copy  of  a  magazine  sent  to  us  by  friends  in  the  North." 
Her  mother  was  the  one  central  figure  in  the  world  to 
her  then.  In  our  after-intercourse  she  talked  of  her 
continually.  "  She  is  a  little  woman  —  less  than  I ; 
but  she  has  one  of  the  finest  minds  in  the  world,"  she 
would  cry.  "  The  sight  of  anything  beautiful  or  the 
sound  of  music  sways  her  as  the  wind  does  a  reed. 
But  she  never  was  twenty  miles  from  the  plantation; 
she  has  read  nothing,  knows  nothing.  My  father 
thinks  women  are  like  mares  —  only  useful  to  bring 
forth  children.  My  mother's  children  all  died  in 
babyhood  but  me.  There  she  has  lived  all  her  life, 
with  the  swamp  on  one  side  and  the  forest  of  live-oak 
on  the  other :  nothing  to  do,  nothing  to  think  of.  Oh, 
it  was  frightful!  With  a  mind  like  hers,  any  woman 
would  go  mad,  with  that  eternal  forest  and  swamp, 
and  the  graves  of  her  dead  babies  just  in  sight!  She 
rubbed  snuff  a  good  deal  to  quiet  herself,  but  of  late 
years  she  has  taken  opium." 

"And  you?" 

"  I  left  her.  I  hoped  to  do  something  for  us  both. 
My  mind  is  not  of  as  high  order  as  hers,  but  it  is  very 
different  from  that  of  most  women.  I  shall  succeed 
some  day,"  in  the  most  matter-of-fact  tones.  "As 
soon  as  I  knew  that  I  was  a  poet  I  determined  to  come 
to  Philadelphia  and  go  straight  to  real  publishers  and 
real  editors.  In  my  country  nobody  had  ever  seen  a 


272  SILHOUETTES   OF  AMERICAN  LIFE 

man  who  had  written  a  book.  Ever  since  I  came  here 
I  find  how  hard  it  is  to  find  out  anything  about  the 
business  of  authorship.  Medicine,  or  law,  or  black- 
smithing —  everybody  knows  the  workings  of  those 
trades,  but  people  with  pens  in  their  hands  keep  the 
secret  of  their  craft  like  Freemasons,"  laughing. 

"You  came  alone?" 

"  Quite  alone.  I  hired  a  little  room  over  a  baker's 
shop  in  Pine  Street.  They  are  a  very  decent  couple, 
the  baker  and  his  wife.  I  board  myself,  and  send  out 
my  manuscripts.  They  always  come  back  to  me." 

"  Where  do  you  send  them  ?  " 

"Oh,  everywhere.  I  can  show  you  printed  forms 
of  rejection  from  every  magazine  and  literary  news 
paper  in  the  country,"  opening  and  shutting  again  a 
black  satchel  on  her  lap.  "I  have  written  three 

novels,  and  sent  them  to  the s7  and s'.  They 

sent  them  back  as  unavailable.  But  they  never  read 
them.  I  trick  them  this  a-way:  I  put  a  loose  blue 
thread  between  the  third  and  fourth  pages  of  the 
manuscript,  and  it  is  always  there  when  it  comes 
back."  Her  voice  broke  a  little,  but  she  winked  her 
brown  eyes  and  laughed  bravely. 

"How  long  have  you  been  here?" 

"Three  years." 

"Impossible!     You  are  but  a  child." 

"  I  am  twenty.  I  had  an  article  published  once  in 
a  Sunday  paper, "  producing  a  slip  about  two  inches 
long. 

Three  years,  and  only  that  little  grain  of  success! 
She  had  supported  herself  meanwhile,  as  I  learned 
afterward,  by  sewing  men's  socks  for  a  firm  in  Ger- 
mantown. 


MARC  I  A  273 

"You  are  ready  to  give  up  now?" 

"No;  not  if  it  were  ten  years  instead  of  three." 

Yet  I  can  swear  there  was  not  a  drop  of  New  Eng 
land  blood  in  her  little  body.  One  was  certain, 
against  all  reason,  that  she  would  succeed.  When 
even  such  puny  ceatures  as  this  take  the  world  by 
the  throat  in  that  fashion,  they  are  sure  to  conquer  it. 

Her  books  and  poems  must,  I  think,  have  seemed 
unique  to  any  editor.  The  spelling  was  atrocious; 
the  errors  of  grammar  in  every  line  beyond  remedy. 
The  lowest  pupil  in  our  public  schools  would  have 
detected  her  ignorance  on  the  first  page.  There  was, 
too,  in  all  that  she  said  or  wrote  an  occasional  gross 
indecency,  such  as  a  child  might  show :  her  life  on  the 
plantation  explained  it.  Like  Juliet  she  spoke  the 
language  of  her  nurse.  But  even  Shakspeare's  nurse 
and  Juliet  would  not  be  allowed  nowadays  to  chatter 
at  will  in  the  pages  of  a  family  magazine. 

But  in  all  her  ignorance,  mistakes,  and  weaknesses 
there  was  no  trace  of  imitation.  She  plagiarized 
nobody.  There  was  none  of  the  usual  talk  of  count 
esses,  heather,  larks,  or  emotions  of  which  she  knew 
nothing.  She  painted  over  and  over  again  her  own 
home  on  the  Yazoo :  the  hot  still  sunshine,  the  silence 
of  noon,  the  swamp,  the  slimy  living  things  in  the 
stagnant  ponds,  the  semi-tropical  forest,  the  house 
and  negro  quarters,  with  all  their  dirt  and  dreary 
monotony.  It  was  a  picture  which  remained  in  the 
mind  strong  and  vivid  as  one  of  Gerome's  deserts  or 
Hardy's  moors. 

There  could  be  but  one  kind  of  advice  to  give  her 
—  to  put  away  pen  and  ink,  and  for  three  years  at 


274  SILHOUETTES   OF  AMERICAN  LIFE 

least  devote  herself  to  hard  study.  She  would,  of 
course,  have  none  of  such  counsel.  The  popular  belief 
in  the  wings  of  genius,  which  can  carry  it  over  hard 
work  and  all  such  obstacles  as  ignorance  of  grammar 
or  even  the  spelling-book,  found  in  her  a  marked 
example.  Work  was  for  commonplace  talent,  not  for 
those  whose  veins  were  full  of  the  divine  ichor. 

Meanwhile  she  went  on  sewing  socks,  and  sending 
off  her  great  yellow  envelopes,  with  stamps  to  bring 
them  back. 

"  Stamps  and  paper  count  up  so  fast !  "  she  said, 
with  a  laugh,  into  which  had  grown  a  pitiful  quaver. 
She  would  take  not  a  penny  of  aid.  "I  shall  not 
starve.  When  the  time  has  come  for  me  to  know  that 
I  have  failed,  I  can  go  back  to  my  own  country  and 
live  like  the  other  women  there." 

Meanwhile  her  case  very  nearly  reached  starvation. 
I  remember  few  things  more  pathetic  than  the  damp, 
forlorn  little  figure  in  a  shabby  water-proof,  black 
satchel  in  hand,  which  used  to  come  to  our  door 
through  the  snows  and  drenching  rains  that  winter. 
Her  shoes  were  broken,  and  her  hands  shrivelled  blue 
with  cold.  But  a  plated  gilt  chain  or  a  scarlet  ribbon 
used  to  flaunt  somewhere  over  the  meagre,  scant  pov 
erty.  Sometimes  she  brought  news  with  her.  She 
had  work  given  her  —  to  collect  a  column  of  jokes  for 
a  Sunday  paper,  by  which  she  made  three  dollars  a 
week.  But  she  lost  it  from  trying  to  insert  her  own 
matter,  which  could  not  well  be  reckoned  as  funny 
sayings.  One  day  she  came  flushed  with  excitement. 
Somebody  had  taken  her  through  the  Academy  of 
Design  and  a  private  gallery  of  engravings  then  on 


MARC  I A  275 

exhibition.  She  had  a  keen,  just  eye  for  form  and 
color,  and  the  feeling  of  a  true  artist  for  both. 

''That  is  what  I  could  have  done,"  she  said,  after 
keeping  silence  a  long  while.  "  But  what  chance  had 
I?  I  never  even  saw  a  picture  at  home,  except  those 
which  were  cut  out  of  illustrated  papers.  There 
seemed  to  be  no  wray  for  me  but  to  write." 

It  was  suggested  to  her  that  she  might  find  the 
other  way  even  now.  Painting,  designing,  wood- 
engraving,  were  expressions  for  a  woman's  mind,  even 
though,  like  her  own,  it  was  "  one  of  the  finest  in  the 
world." 

She  did  not  smile.  "It  is  too  late,"  she  said. 
"  I  will  go  on  as  I  have  begun.  But  it  is  a  pity  my 
mother  and  I  had  not  known  of  such  things." 

After  that  her  light-hearted  courage  seemed  to  give 
way.  She  persevered,  but  it  was  with  dogged,  indom 
itable  resolution,  and  little  hope. 

One  day  in  the  spring  I  was  summoned  to  see  a 
visitor  on  business.  I  found  a  tall,  lank  young  man 
stalking  up  and  down  the  room,  the  most  noticeable 
point  about  him  the  shock  of  red  hair  and  whisker 
falling  over  his  neck  and  greasy  coat  collar.  The  face 
was  that  of  an  ignorant,  small-minded  man.  But  it 
was  candid  and  not  sensual. 

He  came  straight  toward  me.  "Is  Marcia  Barr 
here?" 

"Xo;  she  has  been  gone  for  an  hour." 

He  damned  his  luck  in  a  white  heat  of  rage,  which 
must,  I  thought,  have  required  some  time  to  kindle. 
Indeed,  I  found  he  had  been  pacing  up  and  down  the 
street  half  the  morning,  having  seen  her  come  in. 
She  had  gone  out  by  a  side  door. 


276  SILHOUETTES   OF  AMERICAN  LIFE 

"  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  her  half  a  mile  off.  I  have 
come  to  Philadelphia  three  times  this  year  to  find  her. 
Good  God!  how  rank  poor  she  is!  Where  does  she 
live?" 

I  could  not  tell  him,  as  Marcia  had  long  ago  left  the 
baker's,  and  changed  her  quarters  every  month. 

"And  I  reckon  I'll  have  to  wait  until  she  comes 
hyah  again.  Tell  her  it's  Zack  Biron,  the  overseer's 
son,  on  —  on  business." 

He  was  not  long  in  unveiling  his  business,  which 
any  woman  would  soon  have  guessed.  He  had  come 
to  bring  Marcia  home  and  marry  her.  He  had  always 
"wanted  her,"  and  the  old  colonel,  her  father,  had 
promised  he  should  marry  her  provided  he  could  bring 
her  back  from  her  mad  flight.  The  colonel  was  dead, 
and  he  was  now  "runniii'  the  plantation  for  ole 
madam.  She's  no  better  than  a  walkin'  corpse,  with 
that  damned  drug  she  chews.  She  can't  keep  still 
now :  walks,  walks  incessant  about  the  place,  with  her 
eyes  set  an'  the  skin  clingin'  to  her  bones.  I  couldn't 
'a  borne  it,  I  ashuah  you,  but  for  the  sake  of  fmdin' 
Marcia." 

Two  months  passed,  in  which  he  haunted  the  house. 
But  Marcia  did  not  come.  She  had  begun  to  frequent 
newspaper  offices,  and  occasionally  was  given  a  trifling 
bit  of  work  by  the  managers  of  the  reporting  corps  — 
a  description  of  the  dresses  at  a  Mannerchor  ball  to 
write,  or  a  puff  of  some  coming  play,  etc.  She  came 
at  last  to  tell  me  of  what  she  had  done. 

"It  is  miserable  work.  I  would  rather  sew  the 
heels  of  stockings;  but  the  stocking  looms  have 
stopped,  and  I  must  live  a  little  longer,  at  any  rate. 


MARCIA  277 

I  think  I  have  something  to  say,  if  people  only  would 
hear  it." 

I  told  her  of  Biron  and  his  chase  for  her. 

"  I  saw  him  outside  the  window  the  last  time  I  was 
here.  That  was  the  reason  I  went  out  by  the  side 
street.  I  knew  he  was  looking  for  me.  You  will 
not  tell  him  I  have  been  here?  " 

"  But,  Marcia,  the  man  seems  honest  and  kindly  —  " 

"If  he  found  me,"  in  the  same  quiet  tone,  "he 
would  marry  me  and  take  me  back  to  the  plantation." 

"And  you  are  not  ready  to  give  up?  " 

"Xo,  I  will  not  give  up.  I  shall  get  into  the  right 
groove  at  last,"  with  the  infectious  little  laugh  which 
nobody  could  resist. 

The  water-proof  cloak  was  worn  down  quite  into  the 
cotton  by  this  time,  and  the  straw  hat  had  been 
darned  around  the  ragged  edge.  But  there  was  a 
cheap  red  rose  in  it.  Her  cheek-bones  showed  high, 
and  her  eyes  shone  out  of  black  hollows. 

"No,  I  have  no  cough,  and  I  don't  need  medicine," 
she  said,  irritably,  when  questioned.  "I  have  had 
plenty  of  offers  of  help.  But  I'd  rather  steal  than 
take  alms."  She  rose  hastily  and  buttoned  her  cloak. 

"  This  man  Biron  waits  only  a  word  to  come  to  you. 
He  is  faithful  as  a  dog." 

She  nodded  carelessly.  Biron,  or  a  return  to  her 
old  home,  held  no  part  in  her  world,  it  was  plain  to 
see. 

I  was  out  of  the  city  for  several  months.  A  few 
weeks  after  my  return  I  saw  in  the  evening  paper  one 
day,  in  the  usual  list  of  crimes  and  casualties,  an 
item  headed  "  Pitiable  Case.  —  A  young  woman  named 


278  SILHOUETTES   OF  AMERICAN  LIFE 

Burr  was  arrested  yesterday  on  charge  of  theft,  and 
taken  to  the  Central  Station.  About  eleven  o'clock 
the  other  women  in  the  cell  where  she  was  confined 
perceiving  that  she  lay  on  a  bench  breathing  in  a 
stertorous  manner,  summoned  Lieutenant  Pardy,  who 
found  life  to  be  almost  extinct.  A  physician  was 
called,  who  discovered  that  the  woman  had  swallowed 
some  poisonous  drug.  With  her  first  breath  of  return 
ing  consciousness  she  protested  her  innocence  of  the 
charge.  She  appears  to  have  been  in  an  extreme  state 
of  want.  But  little  hope  is  entertained  of  her  recov 
ery.  Miss  Burr  is  favorably  known,  we  believe,  as 
a  writer  of  some  ability  for  the  daily  press." 

In  spite  of  the  difference  of  name,  it  must  be  Marcia. 

When  we  reached  the  Central  Station  we  were  told 
that  her  discharge  was  already  procured.  She  had 
friends  who  knew  what  wires  to  work.  In  the  outer 
room  were  half  a  dozen  young  men,  reporters,  a  fore 
man  of  a  printing-room,  and  one  or  two  women,  dra 
matic  or  musical  critics.  There  is  as  eager  an  esprit 
de  corps  among  that  class  of  journalists  as  among  actors. 
They  were  all  talking  loudly,  and  zealous  in  defence 
of  "Little  Marty,"  as  they  called  her,  whom  they 
declared  to  be  "  a  dunce  so  far  as  head  went,  but  pure 
and  guileless  as  a  child." 

"I  knew  she  was  devilishly  hard  up,"  said  one, 
"  but  never  suspected  she  was  starving.  She  would 
not  borrow  a  dollar,  she  had  that  pride  in  her. " 

Marcia  was  still  in  the  cell,  lying  on  an  iron 
stretcher.  The  Mississippian,  Biron,  was  with  her, 
kneeling  on  the  floor  in  his  shirt  sleeves,  chafing  her 
hand.  He  had  taken  off  his  coat  to  wrap  about  her. 


MA  EC  I A  279 

"I've  a  good  Quaker  nurse  and  a  room  ready  for 
her  at  the  Continental  the  minute  she  can  be  moved/17 
he  whispered.  "  Look  a-here !  "  turning  down  the 
poor  bit  of  lace  and  red  ribbon  at  her  throat,  his  big 
hairy  hand  shaking.  "Them  bones  is  a'most  through 
the  skin!  The  doctor  says  it's  hunger  —  hunger! 
And  1  was  eatin'  three  solid  meals  a  day  —  like  a 
beast!" 

Hunger  had  almost  done  its  work.  There  was  but 
a  feeble  flicker  of  life  left  in  the  emaciated  little  body ; 
not  enough  to  know  or  speak  to  us  when  at  last  she 
opened  her  dull  eyes. 

"Xone  o'  them  folks  need  consarn  themselves  any 
furder  about  her,"  said  Biron  savagely.  "  She'll  come 
home  to  her  own  now,  thank  God,  and  be  done  with 
rubbishy  book-makers.  Mrs.  Biron  will  live  like  a 
lady." 

Two  or  three  weeks  later,  the  most  splendid  of 
hired  phaetons  stopped  at  my  door,  and  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Biron  sent  up  their  cards.  Mr.  Biron  was  glowing 
with  happiness.  It  asserted  itself  offensively  some 
how  in  the  very  jingling  of  his  watch  chain  and  tie  of 
his  cravat. 

"We  return  immediately  to  the  plantation,"  he  said, 
grandiloquently.  "  I  reckon  largely  on  the  effect  of 
her  native  air  in  restorin'  Mrs.  Biron  to  health." 

Marcia  was  magnificent  in  silk  and  plumes,  the 
costliest  that  her  owner's  money  could  buy.  Her 
little  face  was  pale,  however,  and  she  looked  nobody 
in  the  eye. 

"We  leave  for  the  South  to-morrow,"  she  said, 
calmly,  "and  I  shall  not  return  to  Philadelphia.  I 
have,  no  wish  to  return." 


280  SILHOUETTES  OF  AMERICAN  LIFE 

"  Shall  I  send  you  books  or  papers,  Marcia?  " 

"No,  I  thank  you;  nothing." 

When  they  rose  to  go,  her  husband  said,  "Mrs. 
Biron  has  some  —  rubbish  she  wishes  to  leave  with 
you.  Hyah!"  calling  out  of  the  window.  "You 
nigger,  bring  that  thah  bag !  " 

It  was  the  old  black  satchel.  Marcia  took  it  in  her 
white-gloved  hands,  half  opened  it,  shut  it  quickly, 
came  up  closer. 

"These  are  my  manuscripts,"  she  said.  "Will  you 
burn  them  for  me?  All;  do  not  leave  a  line,  a  word. 
I  could  not  do  it." 

I  took  the  satchel,  and  they  departed.  Mr.  Biron 
was  vehement  in  his  protestations  of  friendship  and 
invitations  to  visit  the  plantation. 

But  Marcia  did  not  say  a  word,  even  of  farewell. 


Typography  by  J.  S.  Gushing  &  Co.,  Boston,  U.S.A. 
Presswork  by  Berwick  &  Smith,  Boston,  U.S.A. 


£  6  4  t;  7  5 


U.C.  BERKELEY  LIBRARIES 


